


Short Change Hero

by cheshireslink



Series: between here and there [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Humor, Gen, He also doesn't want to admit that he cares, Injury Recovery, Moral Ambiguity, More like 'getting the villain to the point where he sees redemption as plausible', Platonic Relationships, Quentin cares about Peter but he chronically overcomplicates everything, Redemption, Texting, The power of friendship, Whump, kind of, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-07-24 23:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshireslink/pseuds/cheshireslink
Summary: The stage had been set and everyone was in place; he would emerge from the Final Battle as the Hero or the Martyr. Either way, Quentin Beck had locked himself into the winner's circle. Then he wakes up in a S.H.I.E.L.D hospital, still alive and kicking, and no longer knows if he's won or lost.Then things really go off the rails.





	1. Fallin' From Your Ladder

**Author's Note:**

> a few points:  
> i - if you are someone who adamantly doesn't think that Quentin is a complex villain/person (which is absolutely fair) this may not be for you  
> ii - marvel doesn't like writing moral ambiguity but I very much do...  
> iii - Peter Parker needs to drive a story's plot for once  
> iv - if you haven't guessed, this is an AU where everything happens except the end credit scenes
> 
> enjoy!

The ceiling was a plain white. The floor was a similar white, but laced with more scuffs. The lights were dimmed, as was procedure for after-hours.There were five locks on the door and there was four pounds of gauze constricting his torso. He was hooked to a heart rate monitor, and its fitful ‘beeps’ kept him from a decent sleep. Quentin Beck knew he ought to be feeling some measure of pain but every piece of him was surrounded by a static-like numbness. He tried flexing his fingers, and thought he felt them move.

_He was tired…_

Outside the room, someone typed in five codes into the panel on the door and slipped inside. He had removed his mask, but Beck’s vision was too blurred to to see his face. Moving tentatively over the floor, they approached Quentin’s bedside.

“Hey man,” Peter’s voice made an attempt to whisper, “How you feeling?”

“What-“ Beck’s tongue felt thick. He stared at the Peter-like blur through heavy lidded eyes. 

“I’m not supposed to be in here.” Peter looked from Quentin to the door to Quentin and back to the door again. “I just wanted to check. See if you were-“ Peter looked to him again, expression tighter, “Really you.”

Hm. Peter still thought Beck was in any position of power. He made note of that but said nothing. 

A face, pale, beaded with sweat and still smeared in blood pushed itself through the drug haze as Peter leaned in. He was just as Quentin last saw him. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re the real Beck.” Peter’s tone was rueful, “It’s probably hard to fake a life-threatening injury huh? Not that I’d know I mean-” He seemed geared up for a lot of talking, which Quentin ought to have expected at this point. He was half tempted to listen, he needed all the information he could get but…he… _tired_ … 

_So god damn tired…_

Against his will, Beck’s eyes slipped shut but he forced himself to stay conscious for a few more seconds. Above him, he knew Peter was speaking but none of the words were registering. A few scattered seconds passed and the room went quiet. Then a warm weight settled over Quentin’s left hand. It hovered, a featherlight touch, then squeezed gently and retreated. 

Footsteps backed out of the room. Quentin felt himself being watched until all five locks on the door clicked shut. 

Quentin toppled backwards into the abyss of sleep, already forgetting that anyone had come inside the room.

________________

Time passed. His wounds began to heal. They moved him out of the priority wing into a room identical if not for the lack of scary looking wires and tubes. Very few paid him any mind. That burned almost as much as the bullet in his chest. After all, he’d fooled every single one of them. That surely should have made him a person of interest in their eyes. Not so. A lone guard had been stationed at his door who never entered and only spoke curtly into the radio in his chest pocket. 

Beck passed the time fuming. Though, he drew a line and pointedly refused to let himself seethe.

All of his work. His masterpieces of subterfuge, precise artistic hand and manipulation of senses all torn down and destroyed. By a child no less! Truly, there was no justice in the world- Beck snapped to attention as his guard suddenly keyed the door open.

“Director Fury would like a word.” The guard said and left before Quentin could answer. 

Soon after, Nick Fury stood at the foot of his bed. His entire body was tightly wound metal. Quentin had seen that trench coat in eleven different action movies. It threw a long shadow over his form on the bed. Beck saw death in his eye. He smiled in its face. 

“Mister Fury.” Quentin drawled, his voice rough from lack of use. “How may I help you?”

“You’re gonna want to talk as little as possible, Beck. You just got out of critical condition and I really don’t care to hear any more bullshit you plan on peddling. So, save your breath.”

Beck made a show of pressing his lips together. Fury continued. 

“You lied to S.H.I.E.L.D. To me and your…’teammate’.” Right. Peter. The most regretful casualty in Beck’s entire operation. The wrench in the plan. The crack in the armour. The only person whose trust Beck had been keen on securing long term. And now- _dammit_. 

“But a word about Parker: he’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

Quentin’s train of thought screeched to a halt.

“What.” He said. 

“I don’t mind telling you that myself and my colleagues at S.H.I.E.L.D would have been quite comfortable leaving you to bleed out on that bridge.” Fury said, “But Parker managed to call us in, asked us to patch you up and _not_ lock you in a cement room for the rest of your miserable days. And here you are.”

“And you listened to him?” Beck asked, bemused.

“Against my better judgement, yes. Considering the hand we had in ruining Parker’s vacation, I figured I could throw him a bone. Besides, now that we all know who you _really_ are, it’s so much easier to keep an eye on you and anyone who worked for you. Make sure you don’t get up to any ‘Avenger’s Level’ trouble on the outside.” A flash of cold humour slipped into Fury expression for a moment. 

They must have finally done a background check on him then. Quentin thought of Peter’s face behind the mask, his joy, his sorrow, his righteous anger and the anguish at Beck’s perceivedbetrayal. He thought of how valuable knowing Peter Parker was Spider-Man was and seeing as he was not in fact dead or going underground, he realized how much wiser keeping that information to himself would be.

For now at least.

Beck cleared his throat and adopted a sorrowfully humble tone.

“If you’ll allow me, Director, before I go, I need to make a phone call.”

After Fury departed, Beck was handed a plain black flip phone. He dialled the number and got an answer on the second ring. As expected, William wasn’t exactly pleased to hear that the kid who sunk the entire Mysterio Operation was getting off scot-free. Quentin listened to his arguments, pretended to consider them and said, “Send a copy to me but wipe anything you have. I mean it. Fury’s watching all of us.” He didn’t intend to use the footage any time soon but it got William to shut up.

“If that’s the case, we shouldn’t be in contact much.” William said, “We have enough cash to stay afloat if we have to hide. What are you gonna do, boss?”

“Don’t forget,” Quentin hardened his voice, “Suit or not, drones or no drones, I’m still Mysterio. I’ll find a way out of this.” He’d lost everything before and rebuilt into someone stronger, he could do it again.

Quentin hung up before William could answer.

________________

The hospital released him after another week with strict orders not to strain himself. He assured the doctor that the last thing he needed was more pain. Without further niceties Quentin had been escorted to a small jet primed to drop him at his new S.H.I.E.L.D regulated safe house. And, lucky him, it wasn’t too far from his old home. Quentin was air dropped into New York and led to an indistinct black vehicle where the very serious-looking driver was waiting to take him to Queens. Waiting for him in the back seat was a small duffle bag. With nothing better to do, Quentin unzipped it and peered inside. It contained one change of civilian clothes, the address to his appointed safe house, and Beck’s phone (no doubt bugged).

Beck didn’t want to think too hard on how S.H.I.E.L.D has gotten ahold of his personal phone and when it buzzed, he checked it. There was one message from an unknown number.

 **Sent to:** Quentin Beck

_Parker knows you’re moving in today. Do me a favour and act surprised when he welcomes you to the neighbourhood._

Oh, so the kid was willing to speak to him despite everything. No surprise there, Peter held grudges like oil held water. Beck frowned to himself, his body felt heavy and his mind was fuzzy, he’d decide how he felt about Peter later.

The black car took him to an urban neighbourhood filled with older apartments made of red brick, several of them threatening to be overgrown with ivy. Humble and about as unassuming as one could get in New York. The car pulled up to a curb, beside one of the taller structures. Turning to Quentin, the driver said, “Floor seven. Room thirty-six. You are registered.” He had a thick German accent.

Quentin nodded, “Alright.” The doors unlocked and Beck, duffle bag in hand, climbed out.

He confirmed at the front desk that he was in fact a registered tenant and swept into the elevator, eager to shut down for the next twenty years. He unlocked the door to apartment thirty-six and made a beeline for the bedroom. Beck’s shoes and socks were kicked to the side, and he curled up on top of the sheets still fully clothed.

He barely had time to appreciate the better-than-a-hospital-matress feeling before he fell asleep. 

________________

As Quentin slept, his phone buzzed and the screen lit up.

**Sent to:** Quentin Beck

_Swept your old apartment. Tomorrow afternoon, Parker will drop off any essential belongings cleared of risk._

Quentin mumbled in his sleep and rolled over.

________________

He awoke to the sound of a fist rapping a solid surface. Woefully sore from his…excursions Quentin made an effort to ignore it and hoped that whoever it was would go away. They didn’t, and the constant noise dragged Beck further and further from his beloved rest. Eventually he gave up, pulled his head up from where it was been smushed into the pillows and glared blearily towards the door.

He took a cursory moment to straighten himself out. If for no other reason than habit. He pushed his bedhead back into something resembling style and made a futile attempt to brush the wrinkles out of his shirt. The knocking had paused. 

He made his way to the doorknob and wrenched the door open. A figure stood in the hallways, their arm raised to hit the door again. They were flanked by two suitcases. Quentin’s brain registered the person in pieces. 

Shorter than him. Young. A teenager. Pale. Brown hair and eyes. Clean-shaven. Kind features. Peter. 

Wait. 

_Peter._

Quentin snapped awake. 

He moved on instinct. Sprang into motion and slammed the door shut. He hurried to press his weight against it, ignoring Peter’s indignant cry. The sudden electric shock of adrenaline did a miraculous job of fading out his pain so Quentin pushed harder. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Beck leaned his back against the door. Breathless. 

“Miss Hill asked me to bring some of your stuff over.” The door muffled Peter’s soft voice, “So I brought some of your stuff.” 

Oh. That was…reasonable. That made sense and was a sound, logical reason for Peter to be at his door at, he glanced at the clock on the wall…2:45 in the afternoon. 

Good thing the kid wasn’t here as Spider-Man too, because Quentin’s body was urgently reminding him that he was even less combat capable than usual. His adrenaline drained, making room for the white hot ache blooming in his chest. He clenched his teeth and a sharp breath hissed through them. 

Well, he’d gone and strained himself.

And on his first day out too... 

He lost his grip on the door handle and slid to the floor. For a few gut wrenching moments, the burning pain didn’t let anything else register. Which is why Beck was mildly surprised to find two arms wrapped around him, offering support. 

“Woah woah, hang on just a sec.” A strong yet gentle hand gripped Quentin’s upper arm to steady him while the other slipped under his other arm. “Don’t worry, man. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” 

Quentin raised his head almost knocking his nose against the kid’s. Oh, this was much closer than he realized. He swallowed against the discomfort.

“Peter?” Quentin said. 

“Uh-hi Mister Beck…” Peter said. 

Beck’s dignity demanded that he shove Peter away, gather up his pride and stand on his own. His body however, stated very firmly that now was not the time to worry about his self image and that it would be most appreciative if he would simply take Peter’s hand and slowly _very slowly_ stand up. Nice and easy.

Through gritted teeth, he heeded the latter.

________________

He directed Peter to his living room sofa, the centre point of the apartment, and let himself be sat down. His wounds were still stinging though Peter had handled him like glass. Peter hurried back to the door to grab the cases he’d brought. He set them on the carpet in front of Beck. The cases were painted black and complemented with sleek silver accents. They looked very big and very heavy. 

“So,” Peter said, rocking on his feet, “Where would you like everything to…um… go?” 

Quentin took a moment to catch his breath, “Depends on what you brought.” 

“Oh- oh! Right, hang on…” Flicking open three latches on the closest case, Peter pried it open to reveal most of Quentin’s wardrobe. Small piles of pants, shirts and sweaters all folded with varying degrees of care. Mixed in, Quentin could see flashes of white porcelain that he recognized as- 

“You used my clothes to pack my dishes?” 

The kid busied himself with sorting Beck’s silverware from his pants. “Hey, I’m just giving them to you! One of Mister Fury’s people packed it.” 

“So you’re Fury’s delivery boy now?” The thought was amusing. Beck could barely tell if that would be a step up or down from a so-called ‘Stark Internship’. 

“I’m just the only guy that’s Mysterio-proof, man.” 

Much as he would have liked to, Quentin couldn’t argue with that. 

He watched Peter move between the rooms, carrying armfuls of clothes and other sundry items. He’d even come with Quentin’s laptop (also probably bugged) which he did appreciate. Eventually, Peter ended up behind the kitchen island. He was sorting through the appliances he had brought and those that were original to the apartment. The boy’s eyes flitting around the room. Trying to take everything in but never leaving Beck for too long. 

“Would you prefer your pans above the oven or beside?” Peter held up one of the pans in question. Quentin shook his head, dazed by the surreality of it all. 

“Whichever is easiest.” 

“Cool.” Peter slipped the pan, and two others like it, into a drawer under the oven. 

A silence stretched between them. 

Quentin looked at Peter. 

Peter looked at Quentin. 

Peter realized that Quentin was looking at him and tried to pretend to look somewhere else. Quentin laughed but disguised it as a scoff. 

Now properly awake, Beck took the time to take in his new home. An almost antique look, or at least not as modern as he was used to, but respectable. Likely one of the older studios. A colour scheme of warm faded browns and light greys with white accents. One long sofa, which he currently sat on, overstuffed and soft with a matching recliner to the right. To the left was the small kitchen and Peter in the middle of it. The space was barely big enough for one person. 

This was his life now. This suffocatingly tiny space. Beck wondered how long he would last. How much time could pass before it was wise to contact William? He shook his head, needing a distraction. 

“You know you never answered my question.” Quentin spoke up. The kid stopped sorting through different sized plates and look up, his eyes wide. 

“I didn’t?” He said. 

“No. I asked you what you were doing here. And I never got a good answer.” 

Peter frowned, confusion written in his face. “I’m here to give you your stuff. Miss Hill asked me to do it?”

“Not what I meant, Peter. What are you doing _here_? With me? You won. Even I can admit as much. What in God’s name can you get out of spending another second in my presence?” Beck could feel his voice raising as his talked. The volume demanded air, which demanded he strain his chest. His chest protested, so he paused to quiet himself. 

Peter left the confines of the kitchen. “When I mess up, I’ve never gotten back up on my own. I have my ‘guy-in-the-chair’, my family and friends that kinda thing.” 

Quentin tried not to roll his eyes. He also made a note to ask what the hell a ‘guy-in-the-chair’ was. 

Peter continued, “And after the bridge I kept thinking about you and Mister Stark and I just thought that you and him both made...a _ridiculous_ amount of mistakes.”

“Excuse me?!” To hell with it. This was a offence that demanded a raised voice. 

“Wait wait wait-“ Peter held up two placating hands. “I’m getting somewhere, just give it a second.” 

There wasn’t much of a choice. “...go on then.” 

“And I think you just need someone to help you be you. Like my friends help me when I get stuck. And you’re like-“ Peter had been alternating between looking Quentin in the eye and looking anywhere else, but now he stepped closer, brown eyes wide and sincere. “You’re, like, a brilliant person, Mister Beck. But you were using everything you had in the all the worst ways.” 

Beck, now less sure of his position, remained silent. 

Peter sped up as he talked. “I don’t think you were just what I saw on the bridge. I think you’re able to be a lot more. Like, an infinite amount of things. Cause that’s what people are. And…before you tried to, y’know kill me, I really did like being friends with you.” Peter smiled at him then, shaky and wary but it was a smile. A more genuine smile than Quentin remembered giving or receiving during his time at Stark Industries. He couldn’t return it. He lowered his eyes. The air in the little apartment grew heavy. He felt Peter falter before his silence, then slink back into the kitchen, focusing determinedly on the cereal bowls. 

_I really did like being friends with you._ Quentin was ashamed to say he agreed. Back in Europe, he’d caught himself before it became too much, and as fate would have it, Peter caught wind of his illusions immediately after. Quentin had needed to end what they had, or he’d lose everything else. 

That had been his objective. Put a stop to it. Sever his ties to Peter so thoroughly it was as good as irreparable. To stomp on their bond with indiscriminate brutality and tear himself free from the possibility of caring too much. Sweep aside anything they had built together and continue with his plan unburdened. Then wrap up the performance as planned, take a bow, say ‘until next time’ to his adorably gullible audience and close the curtains. 

That hadn’t worked out. 

Not just because Peter had recovered but because Quentin still hadn’t. Worse still, he had no idea when he would. For reasons completely unrelated to the bullet, he could feel a constant hum of pain somewhere in his chest. His own emotions torn raw and bloody from being forced to cleave himself free. 

It was maddening. 

Beck was supposed to be better than that. Before he met Peter, he _had_ been better than that. He’d needed to teach the world a lesson and attachment would have only held him back. Frustratingly, it seemed it still was. 

“I said you were good. And you are.” Beck breathed deeply and slowly. “But I’m not. And I’m not you.” 

“You don’t have to be me. I’d never ask you to be me. You can totally be you. Just, y’know…better.” Clinking silverware accentuated Peter’s words. 

On the precipice of combustion but confined to the couch Quentin inhaled sharply, “You don’t know anything about me, kid.” 

“Then tell me about you. Or show me.” Peter’s tone implied a little half shrug. “Getting to know you, when you’re not trying to kill me and my friends, wouldn’t be so bad for either of us.” 

He couldn’t be serious. Quentin already hated this idea and everything it implied. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was too late to trick someone into putting another bullet in his gut. If he remembered correctly, it would be less agonizing than this conversation. He opened his mouth to say as such when Peter’s phone rang. Caught up in the conversation, they both flinched at the noise. Quentin jerked his head up in time to see the kid dismiss the call. 

Their eyes met again. “When we first met, you knew what being good looked like. You could try shooting for something like that.” Peter said. 

“All of that was a lie, Peter.” Well, a grand sweeping lie built on minutiae of truth but Beck hadn’t the energy to debate anything that Peter didn’t need to know. 

“But you knew it would convince me you were good!” On the cusp of a frenzy, Peter’s eyes became wide as he gesticulated between Beck and himself. “So you know what a good person looks like, and I think you can be like that. Or something like it. You just gotta you know fake it till you make it.” 

Beck felt his lips twitch. “That sounds like lying, Peter.” 

Peter slumped back on the balls of his heels, groaning. “You literally faked the entire superhero thing and fooled me, Mister Fury, and almost the world! Why the hell can’t you at least try to not hurt people?”

Quentin wondered if Peter would ever believe Mysterio’s goal _hadn’t_ been to hurt people. It had been a necessity, certainly but an unfortunate one. He doubted he could win that argument, so he said, “And what happens when I decide to stop? If I decide to stop lying about who I am for useless trust and pity points? You’ll just let that slide?”

“No, no you’re missing the whole point. I want you to _not_ lie about who you are. For better or for worse. We both know you can’t trick me anymore.” Peter looked quite proud of himself for that. “And I think that’s what you need. Someone who you can’t lie to. You need to be you.”

Quentin’s mind prodded him relentlessly. _You know what this kid is like. You know that if he sees anything like what he’s asking for, he’ll drop you like Stark dropped you and hand you over to S.H.I.E.L.D._ And if that happened he’d fall even lower than _this_. Wouldn’t that be a magical feat. 

“I need to be me.” Beck made his tone dryer than a desert because he didn’t know what else to say.

“Yes, exactly. You need to be you, so you can look at yourself for real and figure out why you did what you did.” Peter leaned on his palms over the counter, his excitement growing back. His eyes, though as kind as they ever were, were remarkably clear. Full of harnessed energy. “You _can_ be better, Mister Beck. I believe in you.”

Quentin stilled. _That_ was a lie if he ever heard one. No one normal said things like that - to anyone. Even on the chance they did, they certainly did not mean it. But Peter couldn’t lie, not even by omission. Quentin knew enough about the kid to say that confidently, he just wasn’t built for it. 

Through a maelstrom of emotional turmoil and physical pain, Beck managed a small wry smirk. “That may prove to be a terrible idea, Peter.”

“Maybe. But nothing completely risk-free is going to change anything…and you know, it’s not like this is the hardest thing you could commit to. Unless, god forbid, you don’t think you can succeed at a task that _isn’t_ lying to people.” A sly expression wormed its way onto Peter’s face, narrowing his eyes and showing off his teeth. Quentin didn’t think it fit him well, and met it head on with the flattest look he could muster. 

“I just want you to know.” Beck ground out, “I know what you’re doing. I’m not an idiot and I’m not a child. I know what reverse psychology is.”

Peter considered this for a moment, “But you’re still going with it?”

“For now, yes.” He hadn’t survived everything just to throw in the towel now and let him and his work be buried by S.H.I.E.L.D coverups and mountains of more glorification heaped onto Stark and his ex-protege. If Peter really wanted to challenge him, he’d get what was coming.

“Awesome!” Peter beamed at him, “Then I’ll see you later.”

The cases shut with curt clicks and Peter carried both of them to the door. Quentin watched him from the sofa, unwilling to risk getting up before his body was ready. The kid stopped halfway out the door, turned to face Beck, managing to fidget with occupied hands. He looked like he wanted to say more but a stifling shyness held him back. All of that blinding, positive energy had dimmed and he looked…nervous. For the first time in quite a while, the reality of how _young_ Peter was dawned on Quentin. Curiosity, and something more insistent made Beck open his expression, inviting him to speak.

“You’re probably not gonna believe this.” Peter’s smile was small but apparent and Quentin felt himself tighten. “But I’m glad you’re still alive.” Gripping the cases, he backed out of the doorway, “See you later, Mister Beck.”

The door clicked shut, and Quentin was alone. 

Chest still aching, he let his weight sink into the couch. Though he could hardly move, Beck’s mind was racing. Just be him?! What could that even mean? There was no one he could truly be that would gain the approval of Peter or S.H.I.E.L.D. They were all wrapped up in the past, unable to accept the reality of the Blip and were left scrambling to reclaim what they had before. But it wasn’t there anymore, new people, new ideas had risen in their place, Quentin chief among them. Or he would be if Peter hadn’t stopped him.

He’d been stopped, his goal of super-hero worthy fame and recognition lost to the stars. But Quentin was still here. He had no team to back him up, and no illusion tech to fashion a whole new story for himself. There was only him.

Him and Peter.

It’d be a lie to say his curiosity wasn’t piqued. He had understood the kid inside out and backwards before everything had gone south but now… None of this made sense. Perhaps Peter wanted something from him. Access to his technology maybe? No. S.H.I.E.L.D had confiscated all of that when he was arrested. Something Peter was certainly aware of. That and anyone Stark would hand-deliver E.D.I.T.H to would most definitely have access to the rest of his technology. Including the bastardization of Quentin’s work known to the world as B.A.R.F. He wouldn’t need to go through Beck for anything like that. Perhaps S.H.I.E.L.D feared what would happen if Beck were left alone for too long and had enlisted the kid to spy for them. No, that was implausible at best. Though he would never put Fury above grooming child soldiers and spies, if S.H.I.E.L.D really wanted info on him, Quentin would never know they were there. That and Peter was hardly an espionage type, as hard as he would have tried. 

A mild pang of uncertainty hit Beck when he realized he couldn’t piece together a motivation. Before, Peter’s goals had been excruciatingly simple. Boiling down to ‘protect innocent people’ and ‘do the right thing’. Naive as they were, they were understandable, easy to work with. Now though, when everything was out in the open, there’s was no more reason for Peter to do… _this_ let alone even speak to him. Quentin was a failure, Mysterio had been put on…hiatus because of this defeat. You didn’t give this kind of help to failures.

His chest still burned, but he had a portion of his old belongings again. He could make sense of that at least. And he could figure this out, he just need time, and Peter had given him that if nothing else. A pained exhale escaped Quentin as he rested his cheek on his fist. This was where he was now…

Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about losing anything else.

________________


	2. Just to Please Your Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin adjusts to his new...life? Meanwhile, Peter helps him settle in with conversation, dry-cleaned suits, and a lot of text messages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few new points:  
> i -thank you for every hit, kudos and comment (the comments especially have been so kind and well-written), i know this isn't typical Ao3 content because there's no shipping (to which i say: yeah, of course there's not!!) and no heartrending torture and angst (i think peter's suffered enough guys), but the amount of people so on board with this concept blew me away so thank you :)  
> ii - you're going to find this out quickly but the plot of this story isn't meant to jerk you or the characters around, now that Quentin's settled (kind of) in the safe house he and Peter are gonna spend a lot of time marinating in emotions while the cooker's on slow  
> iii - anyways, enjoy watching an unstoppable force (Peter's optimism) meet an immovable object (Quentin's cynicism) 
> 
> enjoy!

The summer passed slowly without work to occupy his time. Weeks came and went, Quentin’s bullet wounds healed at a snail’s pace and kept him moving at approximately the same speed. Though he would rather be shot again that admit it out loud Quentin would be remiss if he didn’t give credit to the one of the only things that kept him from sinking into pseudo bedridden madness: Peter.

At first, the kid popped in every other day. No doubt informed of Quentin’s sensitive condition and checking up so he knew Beck hadn’t collapsed on the tile floor, cracked open his head and died. Often, Peter came carrying scattered paraphernalia from Quentin’s old home, offering them up and asking if Quentin was interested in keeping them. Coats and jackets, decorative cushions and Beck’s reading lamp which he had been grateful to see again though he hadn’t told Peter that.

Other times, Peter offered to run errands for him. Grocery shopping and other such favours. Beck entertained himself with the image of Spider-Man, laden with bags of food as he swooped over New York skyscrapers, the exploitation of the remarkable in pursuit of the mundane amused him, but only accepted the offer during emergencies. He had his pride, battered as it was. Running out of eggs at an inopportune time was not an emergency.

It was strange, infuriatingly simplistic and kept Quentin at a consistent disadvantage. Yet, it was company. The constant chatter. The back and forth with the only person he had no way of charming into compliance or threatening into submission. Peter was all he had to talk to. Removed enough from Beck’s professional life to be enjoyable, familiar enough to be worthwhile company. Quentin was still skittish on approaching the possibility of contacting his crew, he had no idea what Peter or S.H.I.E.L.D would think if they got wind of Beck trying.

Briefly, Quentin considered the possibility that he had let Peter into this farce of a life as easily as he had because there was no one else. He was used to working alone, even on the Mysterio Operation. Though his team had been the ones to raise him up, he was raised all the same, his leadership role set apart. But rare were the times when he was as isolated as this. Could this just be him making the most of a terrible situation?

 _You know better than to think that_ , his head whispered, _You are intimately familiar with settling for less than you deserve. And you should know this is nothing like how that feels._

The living situation was unorthodox but tolerable, and begrudgingly Quentin fell into a routine. Of course, one consequence of routine was comfort, and from the comfort rose complacency. Something Mysterio had been specifically created to fight against. If people got used to peace they became easy pickings for the next world-shaking threat that came along. Face too many of those and _poof_ , there goes the human race.

They’d already lost half of it once.

Although Quentin was a Blip survivor, it had never registered with him how remarkably good the world was at quickly recuperating after cataclysmic atrocities. Until now. Until such events were caused by his hand and he, safe in the knowledge that the dangers were fabricated, had the peace of mind to sit back watch the world recover from him and compare it to past disasters. Well, maybe ‘recover’ wasn’t the right word for what happened in the past. It gave too much credit to the so-called Protectors of Earth who levelled cities in their wars but didn’t stop to clean up their messes. Didn’t stop to give a damn about the people they claimed to watch over.

There hadn’t been a whole lot to root for in the world of superheroes lately. Not since they’d been cowed by Thanos and the Blip and even before that, public opinion had been a fragile commodity. 

Spider-Man, however, seemed to be the exception to that rule. Though Peter’s alter-ego lacked the global recognition of his more…destructive counterparts, he seemed to curry ample favour in his hometown. Of course, as he watched more and more of Spider-Man’s exploits that made it to the news, Quentin he realized it was entirely possible that Spider-Man was so well-liked _because_ of his humble status. People loved underdogs after all. 

A couple times, Quentin asked himself if hooking his interest into both ends of Peter’s double life was inviting disaster. Before he came to a conclusion, another Spider-Man headline inevitably caught his attention and the question hovered, suspended in uncertainty. Unanswered.

Speak of the devil, Peter had just knocked on his door. When Quentin opened the door he barely blinked at the injuries the kid had sustained. A nasty bruise over his eye, rippling purplish red. A split lip and a cluster of splotchy bruises peeking over the neckline of his sweater.

“Come on in,” Quentin ushered him in, then made a beeline for the kitchen. Cracking open the freezer, Beck fished out one of the more solid icepacks. He’d first bought them when he realized that the soreness of his wounds was going to be a lingering concern, even in the later stages of the healing process. Time had then demonstrated that one other person who frequented the safe house could also find a use for them. He wrapped the pack in a tea towel and passed it to Peter, who had taken his usual spot at the end of the couch. The grateful smile the kid gave in return made something inside Beck twinge.

 _Just an icepack_ , that voice was back, _a bundle of frozen chemicals, why the hell does he look so happy about it?_

Quentin deflected the feeling with sarcasm, “Did you forget your accelerated healing at home?” He recalled a series of live clips and an article he’d read earlier that day, “Or at the robbery?” 

Peter looked incredulous, “That happened like two hours ago, how do you already know about that?” 

“I like to stay informed.” Quentin shrugged, lips twitching. He held up his phone, “Not that you need to dig for anything on Spider-Man these days.” 

“Oh. Do you-” Peter gingerly pressed the icepack against the side of his head, “Do you enjoy watching people try to kill me all the time?” 

Quentin took a seat next to the kid. “Not for the reasons you’re thinking of, no.” A small spark of wickedness came alight inside him. 

“It’s just nice to know that no one else can take on Spider-Man as… _effectively_ as Mysterio.” Quentin’s put-on smile was full of knives. It collided messily with the look on Peter’s face. Eyes a widened just a touch, mouth a little open and starting to pull down. The face of a puppy moments before it was kicked. Downright lethal is what it was. A bulletproof manipulation tactic. Quentin’s guise crumbled ever so slightly under its raw power. Disturbed by his own weakness, Beck lowered his eyes and pretended to inspect his nails. They sat quiet for a long moment. 

“Spider-Man still beat Mysterio, though.” The icepack crinkled as Peter spoke up. 

“He had to work for it.” Quentin said indignantly, defending his honour.

“He has to work for all of them, dude.”

“You’re right, all those cats stuck in trees look like real problems.”

“They are! Cats can have finicky personalities!” Peter giggled through his protests and Quentin was half-tempted to join him. “Also, the bicycle thieves. They suck, man. They’re the worst.”

“Ah yes, Queens. Known for its assortment of dastardly rouges. Will the populace never be free of their scourge?” The kid tried to stifle his laughter with the ice-towel but most of it broke through. Alright, deadpan jokes still worked on him. Noted. 

“Buuuut…you know I’ve heard things may be getting better.” Peter began tapping his foot, “For both of them, you know?”

“You ‘heard’ this, huh? From who exactly?”

“Oh a reliable source. So no one you’d know.”

“You know nothing about me or the people I’ve known, Peter.”

“You knew Mister Stark, I know that at least.”

Quentin was woefully unused to not being in the know on what others knew about him. He fumbled for words. “How-what…you know about that?” 

Peter suddenly looked sheepish. “Well, you know how S.H.I.E.L.D looked into you right? When you were in the hospital? They told me some stuff about you, not a lot, but I know you used to work for Stark Industries. Before you ran into…the term ‘creative differences’ was used a lot?”

Beck snorted, “You could say that.” This topic was one he could have stood to avoid for a little longer. Quentin had been content to ignore phantom of Stark that hovered over both of them. Now though… Quentin made a mental note to tell Peter what had actually happened when the time was right. Preferably as soon as possible. Better the kid heard it from him. Then something occurred to him. He narrowed his eyes, “And you waited until _now_ to tell me that you knew this?”

Despite the chill of the icepack, Peter’s face seemed flushed. “Okay, I actually forgot that you didn’t know that I knew so I forgot to bring it up…”

“Peter.”

“Sorry, Mister Beck…”

His mood soured, Quentin dropped the playful lilt he’d barely realized he had taken on and said, “And what else do you think you know about me, Peter?” He meant it as a challenge, but Peter’s thoughtful frown said that he was really thinking about it.

“You survived the-uh the Blip, right?”

Oh. That was a cheery topic to replace Stark. Still, Quentin doubted he could stomach an extended conversation about that overrated charlatan right now, so he nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

“What-” Peter swallowed, “What was it like?”

Quentin’s face darkened as he thought. Christ, what had he even been doing on that day. Quentin dragged his fingers through his beard. He’d been fired by then, amassed his crew and was at some stage of his grand plan. Beyond that…Quentin’s mind was blank. He couldn’t even guess what the hell he’d been up to. Half of the world had been there, a second passed and they…weren’t there anymore. There was ash and then silence. The entire world paused to draw a breath, and subsequently used it to scream in terror.

Afterwards, however, Quentin remembered very clearly. Locking himself away. Working on projects until he collapsed because any alternative involved facing the broken remnants of the world. And the people, god damn the people. Quentin had hated physical contact for months afterwards, not trusting anyone to not crumble into a pile of dust under his touch. Nothing had felt real, except for when everything felt so horrifyingly, overwhelmingly real he could barely bring himself to get out of bed in the morning. The human mind wasn’t built to comprehend any number as high as half of planet Earth but Quentin’s had tried and when it failed, it decided to give him panic attacks at the sight of fucking dust mites to compensate.

Quentin blinked, realizing that Peter was still waiting for a response. “It was terrible.” He said, slightly thrown off at how hushed his voice was, “Everything was normal then it just…stopped. The entire planet went quiet, and no one knew what was going on or when it would happen again.”

“Oh.” Peter said into the icepack, “…Oh. So really bad, huh?”

“Let’s just say,” Quentin said, “I can confidently state that being dusted would have been preferable.”

The kid, who seemed to be clinging to every word , looked profoundly dismayed. He had some kind of _look_ on his face. It wasn’t pity because Beck could tolerate it but it was similar. The apartment suddenly seemed to be drenched in tenebrous grey.

It wasn’t fitting. For either if them. Quentin took a moment to consider his next words, puffing out a quiet sigh.

“Hey,” Beck nudged Peter’s shoulder with a loose fist, “You’re hero friends fixed everything, so luckily it didn’t stick.” He stroked his chin, pretending to contemplate, “Or is that lucky? I get the feeling my blood pressure might regulate if you were a still a pile of nondescript ash on an alien planet…”

Peter jolted, pulled a face and barked out an incredulous laugh, “Whoa- whoah hang on there! Okay there was no need for that!” He let loose a stream of garbled chuckles mixed with protests.

Satisfied that the spell was broken, Quentin smirked and said nothing. 

The kid set the icepack aside, propped his elbows on his knees and propped his chin on his fists. His head wound was nearly invisible. “Hey do you know who chose that name? ‘The Blip’? I don’t think it…” Peter made a puzzled face. “…works very well. Considering how big the whole thing was.”

A fair question. Personally, Quentin suspected the name was chosen to infantilize the tragedy. Cram it into a a box too small to fit, and leave that box behind in yesterday’s news. To very mixed results.

“People wanted to forget it happened, how much pain it put them through. Calling it a blip helped them believe it was small.”

And, Quentin thought, the several billion people returned to life most definitely appreciated their loved ones trying to forget them.

“My aunt works at a shelter for people who lost their houses ‘cause of the Blip. She says she hears really similar things- similar to what you said I mean, at work. I guess when people tried to forget, they forgot about the people who disappeared and came back again."

“People’s attention spans are much shorter than five years, Peter. They’ve moved on from the Disappeared, especially the rich and powerful.” The very existence of such organizations was proof that world’s influencers only had so much goodwill to go around. They pulled a fraction of the weight, patted themselves on the back and left the bulk of the problem to those who had no power to solve it.

“You’re too cynical, Mister Beck. Normal people care about the Disappeared, and that helps. It _is_ helping.”

“Do you think?” Quentin arched a brow.

“Well the shelters are mostly funded by donations and they’re still here so…” A premature ‘I told you so’ was plastered on Peter’s face.

“Tell you what: when you don’t need the shelters anymore, I’ll believe you.”

“Oh we’ll get there. Just wait.”

“Alright, waiting officially begins today. I’ll set my watch.”

"You're so negative, man..."

________________

In earlier days of summer, Quentin shattered his record of the longest time spent consistently interacting with a person the most unlike him he’d ever met. But it wasn’t until some months later when the depths of their differences began to sink in. Rebuilding his life from the rubble of his previous one left more time for thinking than he ever anticipated.

These distinctions, they dominated his thoughts often. 

In so many ways, Peter was Quentin’s opposite. Quentin was a self-styled eclectic who had his designers pull from the best that superhero ensemble had to offer. Peter on the other hand, Beck’s mouth tore into a half-smile. He’d seen the kid’s first outfit. Truly humble beginnings.

Further than that, Quentin found satisfaction in burning bridges that were no longer fruitful while Peter ever the ‘strong and sticky’ hero only ever sought to bring people together. And his first costume was truly an avatar of his goodness. Inexperienced, cobbled together on practically nothing but it had been serviceable. It had survived a plane crash for god’s sake!

Of course, the knowledge that a high schooler who started his career of super heroics in three layers of sweats had been the one to see through Beck’s meticulously crafted manipulations was always going to sting. Still, he had no choice but to afford respect to their differences. He had always known Mysterio was the way. Was the always going to be _his_ way. Then Peter had gone and shown him that it may not be the _only_ way. 

But that was thing about the two of them wasn’t it? Disparity and diverging paths. Quentin could safely place himself at the top of the pecking order because he had complete dominion over the qualifications of the pecking order itself. Only problem was that between the highest point and the lowest was an area that did not allow him to show his true face under any circumstance. He had pretended to be a sagely hero for Peter. He had played the part of a dutiful, prodigious, albeit voiceless, inventor under Stark. And he had played them all so well. As long as he played his parts, nothing could surprise him because he could fashion himself a new persona to suit any need and slip into it like another layer of skin.

Peter had no such ability. Peter was Peter. Sometimes he put on his mask and called himself ‘Spider-Man’ but the two were interchangeable. He spared himself the trouble of keeping secrets by leaving everything out in the open. It was as charming as it was idiotic.

_It’s working on you, isn’t it? It’s so different from you or anyone you’ve had to work with that you can’t compare it to anything. You need to know how and why he does it because not understanding will eat you alive…_

There was something at Quentin’s core. Something buried under the facades, the rotating roles. Something bubbling over with violent energy, raw and lethal and far too sincere for his tastes. He had been keeping it chained for years, not without slip-ups (the freakout after Peter had uncovered the projector in Prague to name a particularly embarrassing moment), but he had kept himself controlled. Peter being around all the time put that at risk. The kid had a natural talent for not only peering behind the curtain but also seamlessly persuading Beck to pull it back with his own damn hands.

He should tell him to leave. Say they were too different, that they would never be friends and Quentin would sooner see him dead. Only, that was a boldfaced lie. And no matter how many in a faceless crowd bought what he sold, the one person Quentin would never ever fool was himself. Among the abundance of strengths Quentin Beck possessed, doing what he didn’t want to had rarely held a place among them. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Peter back in Europe, but everything had hinged on no one seeing through Mysterio’s truth, so he had. Now he still didn’t want to hurt the kid and absolutely nothing was on the line if he chose not to.

Because he’d already lost everything.

Strange, he’d expected losing to Peter to feel the same as losing to Stark. A tangle of meathooks digging raw into his heart, suspending him above empty air as he watched his life’s work be dragged away. All at the whim of one reprehensible man,just…gone. He’d expected losing to Peter to spur him into plotting a comeback like Stark’s dismissal of him had. Another international crisis, perhaps. Another shot at the ones who wronged him and doubted him and-

A knock at the door.

Quentin hurried to answer it.

Peter stood in the hallway. Backpack slung over one shoulder while his other arm was weighed down by about eight pounds of clothes in dry-cleaning bags. 

“Hey.” Peter gave a little smile. He sounded slightly out of breath. Maybe the elevator was out again.

“Afternoon.” Quentin leaned on the doorframe, arms folded.

“I- I have…suits.” The kid indicated said suits with his full hands. “Your suits. For you.”

Beck made a face, raising his eyebrows until he felt his forehead creasing. “I can see that.” He said. “Are you sure you remembered everything?”

“Well it’s everything that’s been cleared. For some reason it takes a lot longer to uh-” Peter tried to raise his arms to do air quotes, “To ‘de-bug’ anything that has to be dry-cleaned.”

Beck’s eyebrow arched. “Fury thought I was hiding my nefarious secrets in my walk-in-closet?”

Peter pursed his lips and looked at the wall beside Quentin, “I mean, I could name a certain suit that was hiding _all_ your secrets…Didn’t bring that one though.”

Touché. For a moment, Beck wondered if he was guilt-tripping on purpose. Probably not. He gave Peter a flat look and held out his hand, “Here. Give me half.” He said.

They took two hours to unpack and hang up ten suit jackets, four of which were paired with their own matching dress pants. Though Beck was working with less space than he was used to, they managed to cram them away in the bedroom closet. As Quentin took a moment to survey their handiwork, the abject pointlessness of keeping such high-end clothing dawned on him. In his days as scientist, his wardrobe hadn’t been of terrible importance to him. Expensive buying and living was just expected of any employee of Stark and he’d accepted it. Everyone flaunted what they thought were their best traits, desperately wishing to be the one chosen to ascend the ivory ladder of Stark Industries. The consequence, one out of a hell of a lot anyway, had been dreary uniformity. Stark had a type, a mold that he expected and his workers were desperate to cram themselves into it.

Quentin hummed thoughtfully as he slid the door shut, wondering how he could have ever thought such things held any kind of importance in his life.

He’d let them be for now, you never know when you needed to look especially good on short notice. 

Peter, who had slipped out into the hall to take a call from a friend, popped back into view, leaning into the threshold. “Hey do you wanna trade numbers?” 

“What?” Quentin said.

“Trade numbers. So we can, like, stay in contact. And so I can talk to you by texting or calling instead of walking all the way here.”

“If I don’t answer are S.H.I.E.L.D agents going to come crashing through the windows and beat down my door?”

Peter shook his head, looking befuddled, “No-n-no of course not!” He said, “They’re not making me do this. I just thought y’know school’s starting again soon and I’ve got- um _stuff._ ” At the mention of ‘stuff’, Peter briefly pantomimed shooting webs from his wrists with accompanying ‘thwip’ noises. Quentin nodded slowly, keeping his gaze purposefully intense. He was mildly impressed when Peter barely faltered beneath it.

“Hm. Alright, sure.” Of all people to have his contact information, Peter was hardly the worst of them. That and chances were high that the kid actually wanted to do this for the reasons he said. Reasons that Quentin could see merit in. 

Peter lit up at his assent. “Nice! And with everything, I might not be able to come by a lot but I think we should still talk when we can. And if something, like, comes up then you can call me- if you want of course!”

Quentin chuckled softly, “And you’re sure you won’t ghost me if I do?” He asked as he opened his contact list. In truth, the fact that Peter Parker- _sixteen year old Peter Parker_ \- had the stones to send Fury to voicemail was going to make Beck smile for some time now. Sheer, brainless audacity was funny like that. 

“Yea-yeah, promise.” The kid perked up, “If _you_ won’t ghost _me_.” He made a face that Beck could only guess was that of a teenager trying to seem shrewd.

“No promises, kid.”

They exchanged numbers, with the ever-courteous Peter sending Beck a half-decent selfie to use as a profile photo. Beck, who only had photos of himself from the period in which he had worked for Stark, declined to extended the same courtesy and invited Peter to improvise on that particular front. No sooner had they done that, the kid was hurrying out the door, wishing Quentin a good day and fretting over being late.

Quentin took a seat at the counter and considered what had just happened.

He had the contact information of a real superhero. An Avenger, no less. A junior Avenger but that counted. Quentin stared down at the line of numbers under the small, grinning contact photo knowing that his mind should be aflame with schemes of how to use this. Perhaps selling it to the highest bidder. Using the number to track down the kid’s address and hiring band of violent rejects to trash the place and kill anyone inside. This info had some kind of use, as all things did, but nothing like that felt appropriate. 

It didn’t feel like something to be exploited.

It felt like a lifeline.

One Quentin wanted to hold on to.

So he did.

________________

In Quentin’s mind, holding a line directly to a person who had been directly involved in a battle to revive half of the universe ought to hold gravity to it. That thought remained a solid fixture in his mind for…all of one and a half weeks. Not to say that Quentin had been expecting heavy topics from him, he just hadn’t expected _this_. Sure, the kid had about as much gravity to him as a piece of wood had the ability to sink. But _still_.

Peter still dropped in frequently, but now Beck could plan for it. Schedule him in, as it were. And in the space his physical absence was felt, a constant stream of text messages rapidly rose to compensate. He didn’t exactly text like an Avenger, if anything he texted like a…well a teenager. Somehow it was a relief. 

**Sent to:** The Dirty Bubble (Mr Beck)

_Whenever I’m feeling down I think about u in that weird motion capture suit and it makes me laugh_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Whenever I’m feeling down I think about you getting hit by that train and I laugh._

_Or slamming into the bell, that was pretty funny too._

**Sent to:** The Dirty Bubble (Mr Beck)

_Ouch. Mr Beck what the heck_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Oh shush._

**Sent to:** The Dirty Bubble (Mr Beck)

_I’m just saying_

_The mocap thingy had the fishbowl helmet and everything except…fake_

**Sent to:** Peter

_If you must know._

_The fishbowl was my design team’s idea, not mine._

_Easier than rendering a person’s face._

**Sent to:** The Dirty Bubble (Mr Beck)

_Was the cape their idea too?_

_Personally I thought it looked cool_

**Sent to:** Peter

_A combined effort._

_I’d hope so, it was made to look “cool”._

_As heavy as the damn thing was…_

_A terrible thing to wear in the summer, believe me._

**Sent to:** The Dirty Bubble (Mr Beck)

_Oh man i feel that_

**Sent to:** Peter

_No you don’t, you’ve never worn a cape._

**Sent to:** The Dirty Bubble (Mr Beck)

_I feel it in my spirit, mr beck!!_

_Also, sometimes the air conditioningpoofs out in my apartment_

_That I definitely do feel…_

________________

No hour was too early or late for the kid, Quentin attributed that to Peter being a teenager as well as Peter being _Peter,_ and once it was established that Beck would read and respond to texts in a timely manner their quantity and variety only increased. At present, the kid seemed intent on sending him a photo of every single thing he found interesting or even halfway pleasant. No matter how banal or inconsequential, Peter could tether his stubbornly positive view to anything. Like the flock pigeons that Quentin had seen photographed on seven different rooftops, whom the kid insisted on calling ‘The Squad’. Pigeon updates of all kinds were bountiful.

**Sent to:** Peter

_Just curious, do you think I don’t know what a pigeon is?_

**Sent to:** Beck what the Heck (Mr Beck)

_Theyre great right!?_

_The best part of my commute_

**Sent to:** Peter

_I’m pretty sure they’re vermin, kid._

**Sent to:** Beck what the Heck (Mr Beck)

_That’s a matter of opinion_

_I think they’re delightful!_

_If you look closely, their feathers are really pretty_

_They do crap everywhere, i admit_

_But every animal does that_

Two photos a day was expected. Today however, Beck had been treated to three pictures of the sky at various points in the day. And he did mean ‘treated’. One in the morning of the sun rising above some kind of sport court, no doubt taken on Peter’s commute to school. One in the mid afternoon, a vivid snapshot of ominous storm clouds gathering in clumps, casting blue shadows. And the one Quentin had just received, said clouds being stained red and pink by setting sun. He let his eyes rove over them, sitting back in his chair. As a man versed in projection tech, he could appreciate a good image when he saw one. The sunrise above the school grounds was especially well done.

**Sent To:** Peter

_Good photos today, Peter._

_But I’m wondering something._

_Weird to ask now but why do you keep sending me these?_

**Sent to:** Beck what the Heck (Mr Beck)

_Hm a couple of reasons_

_They’re great conversation starters_

_And they’re a thing I do already, to have something to appreciate every day_

_Since the Blip dunked us all in existential terror_

_I just wanted to share them_

**Sent To:** Peter

_Oh. I see._

_Very ergonomic of you._

**Sent to:** Beck what the Heck (Mr Beck)

_I had to look up what that meant_

_So you like them? :)_

**Sent To:** Peter

_They’re good shots kid._

_Could do with fewer pigeons._

_But that’s personal taste._

**Sent to:** Beck what the Heck (Mr Beck)

_I’ve heard there’s no accounting for taste_

_Pigeons are majestic, glorious creatures_

**Sent To:** Peter

_You heard correctly._

_And just demonstrated the fact._

________________

In the middle of the night, when it was so late it could very well be the next morning by technicality, Quentin was shuffling back to bed from the bathroom when his phone buzzed and flooded the room with blue white light. Though his first instinct was to ignore it and deal with it in the morning, when he would have a clearer mind on hand, there was a chance that it was one of Fury’s people. It would explain the abominable hour. None of them lived like normal people. Quentin couldn’t afford to get on their bad side. Begrudgingly, he snatched up his phone and flopped on the bed. He squinted against the bright screen.

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_I need your help mr beck_

_In your opinion_

_Would living as an ant be terrifying if you knew that the anteater is called what it is?_

Quentin read the message four times, sincerely wondering if he was really awake. 

**Sent To:** Peter

_Peter._

_Why the hell are you asking me this?_

_At 2:45 in the morning no less._

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_Im discussing it with my friend and we need a tiebreaker_

_You’re the most neutral person i could think of_

_Didn’t realize how late it was though, I’m sorry_

_You don’t have to answer if you’re sleeping, its cool_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Well, I’m awake now so I might as well._

Quentin rolled onto his stomach, squinting blearily at his phone. His exhausted mind slowly jogging itself to a state of half consciousness that would allow him to churn out a sensible answer to the most pointless question he’d been asked since Janice kept asking if he still wanted his cape ironed in London.

**Sent to:** Peter

_Assuming my ant-self thinks like a human, I doubt I’d live in constant fear of anteaters._

_It’d probably be more like an urban horror story._

_Or living with natural disasters._

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_Oh wow_

_That was so much more logical than I expected_

_Also thanks for siding with me :) I also don’t think it’d be too scary_

**Sent to:** Peter

_You’re welcome. I think._

_I hesitate to ask, but did you want to ask anything else?_

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_Yeah, actually_

_And this is the most important question, mr beck_

Quentin propped his free hand under his cheek, the lightheaded haze that came with a lack of sleep staving off any real annoyance. 

**Sent to:** Peter

_Fire away._

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_Are we friends?_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Pretty sure you’re friends with everyone kid._

A solid deflection for 2:56 in the morning. Hopefully it would take.

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_Eh i do what I can but are *we* friends???_

Ah. It had not taken. In Quentin’s defence, teenagers were much better at functioning late at night than adults.

**Sent to:** Peter

_I can say we aren’t enemies._

_Though I doubt I need to warn you against trusting what I say._

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_I’ll take ‘not enemies’ :)_

_But if you don’t mind, ill shoot a little higher_

**Sent to:** Peter

_You want to be friends that badly?_

_How would you tell if we were if it ever happened?_

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_According to my friend_

_Who is sitting beside me and keeps peeking at my phone_

_‘friendshipdoes not need to be spoken of if it is felt in the heart and expressed in one’s actions’_

_So I guess id analyze our hearts and our actions_

_And go from there_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Your friend is quite the wordsmith._

_Am I allowed to ask who they are?_

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_Yeah, my best friend Ned_

_One of the people you tried to kill_

_Shame on you for that btw_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Jeez kid that sure as hell showed me._

_You’ve cured me of my rapscallion ways._

_Congratulations._

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_See that wasn’t hard!_

_Aren’t you happy I stopped u, you got to read that beautiful poetry_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Thrilled._

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_Exemplary!!_

_My work here is done_

_ok I should let u sleep now_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Yeah yeah you fantasist._

_Get some sleep._

**Sent to:** Mysterious Mysterio (Mr Beck)

_Good night mr beck_

Quentin drifted off still holding his phone.

________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading :)
> 
> p.s - Peter's sense of humour and texting style is inspired by the book 'Peter and Ned's Ultimate Travel Journal', I'd recommend it for anyone who wants some happy, silly, canon Peter Parker content, seriously it's hilarious


	3. But I Ain't Gonna Cut You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin speaks out in a bar again but this time it ends...differently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few more points  
> i - I gotta apologize for the gap between this chapter and the last, basically what happened is ch. 3 got way too long so I split it in half (good news, extra chapter!!) and editing/rewriting took longer than anticipated.  
> ii - anyway, this chapter and the next are going be a bit more serious. warning: there is some violence, blood and injury (and injury patching up) in this, and the coming chapter is serious emotion-wise (tags will be updated appropriately)  
> iii - none of the aforementioned physical violence happens to Peter, I just want to make that clear
> 
> enjoy!

Quentin raised his beer to his lips and took a long drink. He was sitting in one of Queen’s older bars, the owner insisted it be called a ‘pub’. Everything was made of aged wood, and the seats were soft and covered in something like velvet. The old lights flooded the room in a green-gold light. Not a bad place at all. There seemed to be a healthy balance between tourists and regulars and they milled about in small groups or dined in booths.

Quentin, being a party of one, had taken a seat at the bar and ordered a beer for himself. He took time to soak in the atmosphere.

A band had assembled on a small stage and were playing some nondescript songs that, if they had lyrics, Quentin guessed would be folk music. Not quite his taste, but…it was nice.

It was definitely a more homely establishment than he was used to, but Quentin hadn’t lived on a Stark Industries payroll for years and the change of environment was a refreshing contrast to the rather tedious life he’d been living since his arrest. Peter’s companionship had been an irrefutable bright spot in the midst of it all, but years of leading a research team for Stark, then leading Operation Mysterio had left Quentin ill prepared to suddenly have a contact list approximately one person long. So he’d rolled the dice and treated himself to a night out. The conversation partners were cheap but Quentin didn’t need anything more than some no-strings, no-consequence talk before the hollow feelings within him subsided and he felt more at ease. 

A handful of women and men approached him, several flirted with him, which Quentin enjoyed and he reciprocated for the fun of it. Though friendly, they quickly lost interest when he made it clear that he wasn’t interested in giving out his number or bringing anyone home. Relationships had never been high on Quentin’s list of priorities- there was so many other things to be done after all- and considering his circumstances, pursuing one would be downright idiotic. Quentin didn’t trust for a second that Fury had just dropped him in New York and left him to his own devices. S.H.I.E.L.D was watching him, and anyone in this bar could be one of their stool pigeons. So he kept them all at arms length, gave vague yet playfully ironic information about himself if they asked, and turned down any offers for sex. _Not a far cry from what you used to do, huh?_ He supposed he came off as frigid, but he’d known these people for moments and they hadn’t known him at all. It was good entertainment, nothing more. 

He was teasingly waving off a young woman in a sparkling red dress when a smattering of chatter caught his attention. To his left, three men were staring up at a mounted T.V. Quentin followed their gaze, and who did he see but a certain red and black costumed superhero.

On the screen was a phone-quality photo of Spider-Man squatting in a tree, reaching for alarge black and white cat. Quentin smirked. _His natural state._ His mood took a dive when the three men watching spoke up again.

“Damn costumed freaks…” The biggest man said, “Shame Thanos didn’t make ’em go extinct. The world’s better off without _any_ of ‘em.”

“Eh he’s not so tough…” The smallest one growled. “Get ‘im round the neck and it’ll snap just as easy as any other punk.” The trio shared a short fit of chuffing laughter. Quentin held his beer in such a firm grip his fingers trembled. He concentrated on the sanded wood countertop.

They just kept talking. 

“Or just blow his head off!” The second largest piped up, “That oughta keep him down for at least a week.”

Quentin’s brows furrowed as he dared a glance to the side. He wished he could block them out but their voices were unapologetically loud. None of them cared who heard them, hell they probably _wanted_ everyone in earshot to hear them. Hear how big and strong they were. Hear them take up the challenge of killing Spider-Man. _Of killing Peter…_ Quentin’s insides were clenched tight. Uncomprehending of his own anger, he knocked back more beer to cool the spiking rage. How dare they!? How dare they even think they could measure up to Peter? When not only Quentin, but all of New York had daily proof that common street thugs were nothing more than child’s play to him. Quentin was a man of standards, no matter what anyone said about him, and he would not tolerate _this_. Not for one more second. His carefully constructed front sprung a leak. That thing inside him, that violent, thundering creature dug its way to the surface and Quentin welcomed the swelling anger. Causes worth fighting for, really fighting for, came few and far between for him. He steeled himself. Savoured the feeling. 

His empty bottle hit the counter, clanking hollow.

“Shut up.” He said.

He felt their eyes turn his way. Good. He did well with an audience.

“Did you say somethin’ to me, little man?” The biggest man’s voice was soft, almost curious.

“You don’t know a damn thing about Spider-Man. What he’s capable of.” Quentin saw them falter under the heat of his glare. “He’s not going to be beaten by someone like…you.” He let a venomous, appraising eye drift over the three of them.

“You’re talking like you think you’re better than us.” The leader remained on his stool as his underlings encroached upon Quentin. Quentin stood, trying to keep all three of them in front of him.

His voice lowered into a vicious snarl, “I’ve done more in a day than any of you fuckers will do in your pathetic lifetimes.” 

He was shoved back, hitting the counter hard enough to wrench a a grunt from him.

The reality of fighting was garbage. Complete garbage. Everything moved slower than it should. He couldn’t throw a good punch. It was clumsy. Undignified. Quentin barely managed to keep his grip on the countertop. He was already dizzy with adrenaline, every piece of him quivered as his instincts struggled to settle on fight or flight. His hair was already disheveled. Some fell over his eyes as he glared up at his attackers. 

Three of them. Two smaller ones backing their burly meathead leader. The usual fare of back alley trash. So stereotypical, so cliche that the thought of facing such a trio brought a grin to his face.

He reached for his empty beer but his hand closed over air. Quentin glanced to his right, saw the bartender holding it, pretending to wipe it down with a cleaning rag before tossing it in the trash.

“Now, now gentlemen.” The bartender had a high-pitched, weasel voice, “If there’s a problem here, take it outside.”

The room held its breath. Quentin looked at the three thugs, unwilling to back down but also averse to the idea of three against one.

Still, he’d taken on worse, Spider-Man for instance, and he’d survived that. _Because Peter saved your life,_ his head shot back at him. Quentin smothered the voice under his proverbial heel.

The leader jerked his head towards the door, Quentin nodded curtly.

“See you outside.” He said.

He pushed past the small crowed that had gathered and stepped into the night.

________________

The parking lot was disproportionately large to the amount of patrons the pub got. A wide sheet of black asphalt littered with broken glass, decomposing chain link fences and empty take out boxes. Quite the step down from using the Tower Bridge as an arena, but Quentin was used to that by now.

The orange streetlights turned the four of them to silhouettes. Quentin squared his shoulders and raised his fists.

He sprang forward, his fist caught the side of of the leader’s mouth. Teeth scraped against his knuckles. The feeling was almost enjoyable. It didn’t last. As he raised his fist again, a hand grabbed his arm stopping the momentum cold.

Like he said. Complete garbage.

It could hardly be called a fight. Quentin tried to lunge forward again but the leader caught him mid movement. The world spun into a blur and he hit the ground arms first. The wind was punched out of him. For a moment, he could only sputter and gag, writhing on the ground. He managed to flip himself. Through his turtleneck, the cold pavement scraped against his back. The chill was almost soothing.

Then the thug was on top of him. Planting one knee in Quentin’s chest, looming over him. Nearly panicking, Quentin tried suck in quick breaths through his clenched teeth. Then he was being punched. Twice in the eye. Both blows nearly knocked him out as his ringing ears blocked out everything else. He tried to shield his face with his arms and the raining fists moved down to wherever else they could reach. 

It went on for a long, horrible moment, then suddenly stopped. Quentin heard a voice above him. A slavering animal’s voice. “Yeah, pretty boy- how’s that feel?”

“Get the hell off of me…” It took effort to enunciate but Quentin found it within him. He couldn’t feel fear. He could barely feel anything past his shaking, blinding rage and pounding head.

“Sure thing.”

Suddenly, a heavy hand pawing at the front of his shirt. Gripping the sweaty fabric. Hauling Beck up to his knees. He clawed at the wrist, or as much as his clipped nails could claw at anything. It amounted to nothing. His knees scrapped against the tarmac and his spinning head fell forward. Two sets of hands caught him by the shoulders to keep the rest of him from following. His arms were wrenched behind his back. The leader released Quentin’s shirt and took half a step back. His face was set in a rictus of slimy satisfaction. The sight of it made Beck want to shoot for punching the guy’s teeth in again.

“So,” the leader bared his teeth, “Where’s your hero now?”

Quentin took the opportunity to catch his breath. He knew he ought to be thinking hard. He’d been given a chance to speak so there was still a chance he could get out of this before anything…serious happened. He knew how to use his words. For his entire life, Quentin’s words were all he had and they had nearly won him the entire world. He could convince these worthless idiots to stop. He opened his mouth to do just that but a thought made him pause. Could he convince these thugs of anything? They were brainless. Operating on blind hatred- first towards Spider-Man, then towards him. As clever as Quentin was, even he couldn’t directly combat the witless non-logic that unchecked emotion created. What he said here really didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. Despite the circumstances, Quentin could feel a delirious hilarity bubbling up like hot oil. It pushed itself from the depths of his stomach, up through his ribcage and into his face. It manifested as a crooked, red-stained grimace.

He was right about Spider-Man. _About Peter._ No matter what happened here, he was right.

“He’s got better things to worry about.”

They didn’t let him say much more. The first punch snapped his head to the side, the rest hit anywhere they could reach. Meat slamming against meat. Winding him over and over until he could barely breathe. Without the flashy light show he was used to it was just awful. Everything so agonizingly real. No illusions. No tricks that would let him slip backstage and exit. Brutish, sloppy, too much for him to handle.

A pause. His attacker breathing heavily. Gasps clouding into white steam. Quentin underneath him focusing on taking in one rasping breath after another. His body running feverish. His mouth and beard felt sluggish and wet. He couldn’t see clearly.

A ‘pap’ of feet landed on the tarmac behind. Catlike and graceful.

“It’s not nice to hit people, man.”

_Oh for the love of..._

As if snatched up by a monster, one by one each man was yanked away from Quentin. Pulled from halo of the street lamp and into the nebulous space that was the midnight parking lot so fast there was no time to speak. Some light punches and kicks and few choice ‘thwips’. And suddenly, all was quiet. Quentin was alone.

Well, not _alone_ alone.

“Hey there.” Peter’s gentle voice cut through the haze of pain that filled Quentin’s head. “Hey, can you stand up?” A pair of frantic hands gripped Quentin’s arm. “Are you okay?” 

Quentin’s heart stuttered, he didn’t want the kid to see him like this. It was bloody humiliating, not to mention excruciatingly familiar. He coughed wetly, “Yeah, yeah I’m-I’m alright…” By some miracle he struggled to his feet, fully intending to shrug out of Peter’s grasp and stumble back to the safe house. The light from the streetlamp caught the good side of his face, if any part of this mess could be called ‘good’, and he heard Peter gasp.

“Whoah whoah whoah- wait a second- Mister Beck!? What are you doing here? What happened? Wha-wait wait wait, hang on I got you-”

The hands scrabbling over his arms and shoulders returned with a vengeance. Peter’s voices spiked up a couple octaves, as he darted back in, checking and rechecking for anything life-threatening. Quentin made to step back, and sweep up what remained of his dignity but Peter followed with his arms outstretched, ready to catch him. Years of honed silver tongue and quick-witted charm spurted out and failed magnificently in the face of Peter’s open-faced concern. Beck heaved a sigh, through his mouth as his sinuses were clogged with blood.

  
“Hey, kid.” He said.

________________

The best fighters, Quentin realized, didn’t leave evidence that there had been a fight.

They had ended up in the safe house bathroom when Quentin refused to check into a hospital and the kid’s new suit judged his wounds as non-fatal. Peter half carried him inside, flicked on the light and sat him down on the toilet. The harsh white lights were a rude wake up call after the cool darkness of outside and the fact that it reflected off every surface only made it worse. Groaning, Quentin tilted his head back to try and stop the nosebleed, squeezing his eyes shut for good measure. He didn’t want to think about the blood dripping on the white tiles right now. 

“Any towels you don’t want me to use for this?” The kid piped up, Quentin half-opened his eye to see him rooting around under the sink. Asking that now was ridiculous but the fact that Peter had it in him to be ridiculous was a comfort. He gave a curt shake of the head.

“Dealer’s choice.” He said, trying not to cough.

He heard the tap being turned on and the sound of a cloth being wrung out. A cool, damp rag was pressed up against the front of Quentin’s face. 

“Here- here. Hold this, please.” Quentin took the rag, holding it firmly as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Try not to move…” Peter ran another cloth under the faucet and set to work wiping blood and dirt out of Quentin’s beard. His touch roved across Quentin’s cheeks to the underside of his jaw before snaking up to clean Beck’s forehead and the space around his eyes. Quentin hissed when Peter bumped his swollen eye, “ _Easy_ there, easy…” 

Peter pulled back immediately. “Oh sorry! Sorry, just hang on a second, man. Everything’s gonna be juuusst fine.” The kid caught Quentin’s free arm and pushed up the slightly tattered sleeve, exposing short rows of skid-marks that were bleeding steadily. The pavement really chewed him up, Quentin winced, the pain of the cuts more apparent now that he could actually see them. Peter rinsed the rag he’d used on Quentin’s face and repeated the process on his arm, wiping them clean as Quentin watched under heavy eyelids.

Peter ducked back under the sink and fished out a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a clean washcloth, and a small roll of bandages. He wet the cloth with water and antiseptic and dabbed it over Quentin’s arms. Once they were cleaned, Peter tore off a length of bandage and wrapped it around Quentin’s forearm.

For the first time since they sat down, Peter looked Quentin in the eye. His strange half-squat half standing position put their faces quite close together. His gaze was wide-eyed and a little watery.

“I…I…Are you okay?” Peter said.

Quentin could feel himself bobbing in and out of consciousness, it felt like trying to swim with his hands tied. He was sure he’d be frightened of it if he weren’t so tired. He was bruised, bloodied and completely spent. His swollen nose and mouth made breathing difficult and his own blood was flooding down his throat. And before him was Peter, trying to keep him from keeling over in this shitty little bathroom. Prodding Quentin’s ribs, checking for breaks and immensely relived to find none. The kid was still here. Since the hospital. Since they traded numbers. Since they met in Europe. Peter had never gone far.

“I’ve been better, kid.” Quentin said.

He had never felt more safe in his life.

…

God, he must have been hit in the head _really_ hard…

Peter started talking again, rambling on about his school and what he was learning and what he wished he didn’t have to learn. Quentin refocused on it. As he did, he experimentally removed the washcloth from his nose pleasantly surprised to see the bleeding had subsided. He kept the rag on hand, just in case. He offered up the newly freed arm to Peter who eagerly began tending to it. When both arms were securely bandaged, Peter turned his sights to the small scratches and cuts on Quentin’s hands and face. Though the antiseptic stung like hell, the discomfort was undercut by the soothing albeit erratic patterns the kid was tracing over Quentin’s face with the washcloth. He was far from a registered nurse but his bedside manner was undoubtedly sufficing. Quentin sat forward, surrendering to the feeling of being in someone else’s hands.

_You’ve never had anyone take care of you like this before…_

Quentin sighed quietly.

He refocused on the kid to shut out any more thoughts like that. 

“Did I-” Peter paused to swallow, one of his hands was cupping the side of Quentin’s head as he tried to wipe some crusted blood from his hair. Quentin could feel his fingers trembling. “Did I tell you we learned about pre-modern art? In history?” He coughed out a laugh, “Not sure why we didn’t learn it for the summer trip but uh yeah…have I mentioned this yet?”

“No,” Quentin murmured, “No you didn’t.” He peered through his matted hair, his swelling eye twitching as he tried to crack it open, “Tell me about it.”

“Oh it’s so cool, Mister Beck.” The mask of worry cracked just a touch and suddenly Peter was smiling up at him in teary-eyed relief. “We get to learn why people made the things they did and like the science behind the art is _awesome_. I just wish I didn’t have to write so many papers on it. I mean, school’s never been busier. It’s like the teachers are all on the same schedule-like we get all the assignments on the same days and they’re due on the same days too. It’s insane…”

Quentin hummed, “That feeling never goes away, Peter. No matter who you work for.”

“Oh,” Peter said, still smiling nervously, “That’s good to know.”

________________

Feeling stiff as a man triple his age, Quentin found it within him to stand up and let Peter guide him through the darkened apartment. “Shit, I do _not_ want to know what time it is…” Quentin pretended to grouse to fill the silence.

“Hey, no curfews for superheroes.” He could hear Peter little grin as they entered the bedroom. “That’s what I always say.” 

Quentin very much doubted Peter had ever said anything of the sort. He rolled his eyes.“And I’m sure your aunt is just thrilled to hear you say things like that…” He kicked off his shoes and socks and half-fell, half-lowered himself onto the bed. He didn’t bother with the covers doubting his bruises would thank him for the added weight. 

Peter rocked on his heels, wringing his hands. “Eh…okay I _almost_ always say it.” 

“That’s the spirit…” Quentin’s head landed on something soft. _Good enough._ Immediately darkness overtook his vision as he fell into a doze.

Somewhere else, he could hear soft footsteps and fabric sliding over fabric. More footsteps, coming back over to him. 

He felt the weight of a wool blanket being draped over his aching body.

A warm pressure curled around Quentin’s hand and remained there as he fell asleep. 

________________

Quentin awoke on his bed, half turned onto his side, uncertain of the time and feeling like yesterday’s mince meat. With a groan, he rolled onto his back. His entire body had a pounding headache, his torso felt hot and dry and was tangled in a blanket. It took considerable effort to pry it off, but when he did Quentin realized he was still dressed in the outfit he wore the previous night. The clothes he had been wearing during the fight. Though his turtleneck was dark, he could see most of the front was caked in dried blood. Jesus, he shuddered to imagine how disgusting he smelled right now… 

When he gathered the strength of will to get out of bed Quentin changed slowly, he had no choice when the smallest movement felt like it would shatter him to pieces. There was an old full-body mirror left over from the previous owner. It sat against the opposite wall and when Quentin finally pried off his shirt he caught a glimpse of himself and gaped.

Quentin barely recognized himself.

His chest and stomach were a mess of splotchy bruises. A canvas of sickly yellows and purples, all of them sore as hell. Quentin ghosted his fingers over his stomach and winced, very sensitive too. In the night, the wraps around his arms had shaken loose and their ends hung down, coming free with only light tugging. His forearms were covered in large thick scabs, still a little red around edges, the previously unmarked skin raw from being dragged across the pavement. The left side of his face had taken the worst hits. His jaw ached, and the side of his mouth felt inflamed. Though the swelling around his eye had thankfully subsided, in its place was a blooming bruise, nearly the colour of red wine.

All in all, a sickening sight. Beck forced himself to look upon it for a few seconds longer, forced himself to own up to why he’d decided to be so damn stupid.

Quentin frowned, is that what this…thing with Peter was turning him into. A righteous, bloody smear in a parking lot? He was better than this. Everything he’d done last night- staring that fight, letting those thugs beat him to a pulp, _being_ at that bar at all- all of it was beneath him! And at the end of it all, Peter had been the one to scrape him off the floor. Quentin groaned, anger and embarrassment further flushing his irritated skin. Why, of all people, was Peter always the one to see him at his worst? The _one_ person Quentin currently had any…emotional investment in. The one person who, ever since they met, hadn’t been meant to see Quentin at anything _other_ than his best.

Staring at his injured self recalled memories of Prague. Of ‘fighting’ the Fire Elemental and pretending to sacrifice himself. At the time, he’d scripted in that desperation, that devotion to an imaginary family because it sold. It got people on Mysterio’s side and locked down Peter’s trust even further. Quentin considered the previous night. The protective, unstoppable rage that only knew he needed to destroy the people threatening someone he…cared for? Was that what it _would_ have felt like? If Mysterio had been fighting for real people?

The looks Peter had given him in the bathroom last night…he’d been just as frightened then as he had at Quentin’s ‘sacrifice’. Quentin’s burning stomach twisted.

It was almost poetic. The second he stepped out of his fabricated realities, he got his ass kicked by the real world. That thought lingered as he threw on a random t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

When he shuffled to kitchen Quentin was only a little surprised to see Peter Parker hovering behind the island, fingers tapping on the countertop. 

“Peter?” He blinked at the hollow rasp of his own voice. Christ, even his throat had gotten its ass kicked. He tried clearing it, “Peter?” There. That was better.

“Mister Beck!” Peter straightened, his eyes going wide. He seemed caught between a delighted smile and gaping in awe. “Hey-I-I just came by to check on you, but you were still asleep but I still wanted to check on you so I waited and-uh. Yeah.” He waved away the sentence, “Anyway, how do you feel?”

“I’ve been better.” Quentin said as he took a seat at the counter. He brushed his fingertips over the bruise on his forehead, “But it’s better than the alternative. Thanks for patching me up.” Despite the cocktail of emotions swirling inside Quentin, he knew the very least he owed the kid was a thank you.

Peter visibly brightened at that. 

“Yeah- yeah of course. Anytime. My aunt taught me how to disinfect cuts so those are all good. I had to kinda lift your shirt to check some of them but I didn’t take it off- I swear.” Peter wrinkled his nose, “That’d be weird.” Quentin nodded slowly and tried to smirk but his swollen face twinged _hard_. Shit, he felt as awful as he looked. Sitting up straight was becoming a challenge, so he leaned heavily on his arms, trying to focus on the marble counter.

He should just be grateful, Quentin knew. Last night had gotten undeniably…dicey and Peter intervening when he did had been sheer dumb luck. He should be grateful to be alive. But this felt so familiar, Quentin couldn’t stop thinking about why he’d been _allowed_ to get to this point in the first place.

 _You can be you_ , Peter had told him that. _You can be you just…better._ Was this what better looked like? Picking fights he couldn’t win? Choosing feelings over facts? Bleeding out in a middle-of-nowhere apartment bathroom? Quentin’s blood chilled in his veins, something terrifying occurring to him. 

_Is he setting me up to fail?_

Quentin knew, perhaps better than anyone, that Peter would never in his life move with the intent to maliciously harm. Not even against an enemy. He preached kindness and friendship and it showed even in how he fought. But Quentin’s head was swimming, he could barely get a grip on himself never mind the kid. It was that first day in safe house all over again. Quentin wounded, confused, thrown from his place. Peter beside him, wide-eyed, diligent, offering support without demanding payment.

Why was this happening?

How could he _let_ this happen?

“Peter,” Quentin made sure the kid was looking him in the eye before he asked, “Do you…do you hate me?”

A startled blink and a frantic shake of the head, “No! No I don’t hate you.”

“Did you hate me in London? When we fought?” Quentin pressed, both dreading and desperate for an answer.

“No…no I didn’t hate you then either.” Peter took another moment to ponder that one. “Though, it- it did come pretty close. Closer than I’ve ever been, if I’m honest. But no, my head was too filled with…a lot of other things to actually get to hating you. The only thing I really knew was that I couldn’t let you hurt more people. Why?”

“Because I would.” Quentin’s voice dropped into a rasp, “I’ve hated people for doing far less to me than what my team and I did to you. And I’ve never regretted it.” His head was spinning, understandable since it had been kicked in less than seventeen hours ago. He knew that shutting up would be his best move but he couldn’t stop. It felt like something inside him had been knocked loose, giving way to this flood of brutal, foolish honesty. “When I worked for Stark, I-he he stole-”

“Tell me about it later, okay?” Peter hurried around the island to sit beside Quentin, cutting him off. “When you’re better, we’ll talk about it.”

Quentin hadn't the energy to argue, besides Peter was right, that particular conversation could only happen when both of them were of sound mind. He massaged the bridge of his nose, making an attempt to compose himself. The brief silence made his head hurt much worse than talking did. He looked back at Peter, who looked back at him, contemplating.

“You know I’m not doing all this stuff to hurt you or anything, right?.” Peter said, folding his arms on the counter, “I just think you need help, and like I said before- I do like being your friend. That part’s definitely a bonus.” He flashed a bashful grin. 

“Even if I don’t deserve help?” Quentin pushed his tone down into something even, calm and clinical. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine they were talking about someone else.

“Look, man.” Peter half sighed, half laughed, “I’m not the guy who can judge who deserves what in, like, life. I’m not sure who is, but I’m definitely not that guy. I help people. I help any person if they need it and I can give it. That’s what I do.”

He was naive. So insufferably naive and generous…but it was calming in its simplicity. The kid said what he meant, and meant what he said. He made being ‘good’ seem effortless. But Quentin already knew that, didn’t he?

When Quentin didn’t speak, Peter took it as a cue to continue, “That’s my job. Someone needs to look out for the little guy. And obviously in your case I had to save them from you before…doing all _this_. But I couldn’t let you just get taken away without trying to help, not after you lost everything.”

“But why give me this chance?” Quentin pressed.

Peter frowned, pausing to contemplate his answer. Quentin watched him, searched for any hint of a deceit and found nothing. Peter said, “When we were in Prague, fighting that fake fire monster you said you were glad we met. And after, before that train hit me in Berlin, you said you were sorry that things became what they did.” Peter paused to scratch his nose, “I guess I wanted to give you a chance to prove it.”

“Oh.” Quentin said. _Oh._

Peter nodded, his eyes flicking to Quentin’s arms empty of bandages. “Hey,” He said. “I gotta head out soon but I could clean those again if you want?”

“That’d be great, kid.” Quentin said, meaning it. “Thanks.”

________________

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Hey man_

_How you feeling??_

**Sent to:** Peter

_I considered answering this question with a lie but you saw me last week._

_Honestly, I feel pretty damn terrible._

_But I’m still alive to feel terrible._

_Thanks to you._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Aw man, I’m just sorry I didn’t get there sooner_

_Want me to grab you anything ?_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Don’t apologize, Peter. You did everything you could and then some._

_No thanks, I’ve got enough painkillers to put myself in a coma._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_I think that’s how captain America got his powers lol??_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Hah. They pumped him full of ibuprofen and stuffed him in a freezer for what 75 years?_

_And boom you got a super solider._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_See!?_

_next time you wanna pretend to save the world you have a recipe_

**Sent to:** Peter

_The plans just write themselves don’t they?_

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Hehe yeah_

_Oh btw, sorry I couldn’t come by_

_There’s SO much going on_

_I missed you this week :(_

**Sent to:** Peter

_I do not believe for a second that you’re hurting for company so bad that you’re missing me after one week._

_You have friends, Peter. And school. Worry about them before me._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_My other friends don’t go around picking fights in shady parking lots!!!_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Just another reason their company is worth more than mine._

_Also I picked the fight in the bar not the parking lot._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Oh my goodness,_

_allow me to introduce you to the absolutely wild concept of me liking to hang out with you because I like you and I think you’re neat_

_Among other things_

_Ever heard of it?_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Hm. Can’t say I have, kid._

_And I was a research scientist for 12 years._

_It’s probably a new theory._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Uuughhhhh_

_Hope you’re ready for some learning_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Sure, kid, sure._

_Speaking of learning, how’s your art history paper coming along?_

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Oh right_

_…_

_It’s comingalong I swear._

_Slowly_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Mmhm. I see._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Ok you just reminded me of something kinda important_

_I gotta go_

_Talk to you later :)_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Yeah yeah._

_My offer to edit still stands._

_If I were you I’d take it._

________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading :)
> 
> p.s - This story isn't going to get dark (it's marvel ok), but Quentin needs to get his world shaken so he can grow


	4. Why You Lie and You Cheat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're friends, they both know they're friends. But neither of them lead lives of stability and the ghost of Stark is demanding everyone's full attention - as the bastard always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple more points:  
> i - you'll find in this chapter, several personal criticisms of both mcu spider-man films. don't get me wrong, I enjoyed both but there is some stuff they should talk about  
> ii - enjoy!

It was raining in Queens that afternoon. Quentin had never much cared for rain. Not an onslaught deluge that called for the emptying of basements or the halting of public transportation, but neither was it a light, ignorable drizzle. It was hardly worth it to brave the cold and damp for the sake of a few errands that Quentin could afford leaving for tomorrow.

That, and his recovery was slow-going. The blows to his chest had reignited the sting of the ‘old’ bullet wound which restricted his movement even further. Doubly painful was the fact that the offending wounds had been inflicted by nothing more than back alley trash. A harsh reminder to invest in self-defence classes like he’d always meant to. Quentin inhaled slowly, felt the bruises on his torso burn from the strain and exhaled just as slowly. No. He would not be going anywhere today.

Still, there was a fine line between a lazy day and a completely wasted one. To preserve his dignity, he had dressed himself in a business casual outfit of a grey button up with the top two buttons undone. Complimented with a simple black blazer and comfortable slacks, Quentin pulled up the recliner over to the largest window in the apartment and allowed himself to enjoy the overcast view as he worked. At present, on his lap sat a complied list of organizations, all of them of questionable or downright ill repute, who had expressed interest in Quentin’s field of study. Today’s goal was to separate the names into two categories: those he could afford to get caught working with and those he could not.

S.H.I.E.L.D was an organization rife with dirty secrets and paranoia. They knew that if they didn’t want Quentin digging out the skeletons in their closets they were better off leaving him to his own. To an extent of course, hence the list. As fun as playing the starring role on the international stage had been, Quentin knew that if he ever intended tackle a project that big again he’d need to re-establish his troupe. Re-distribute roles and find superior replacements for those who fell short in the past. And in the meantime, he would need to put food on the table.

So he leafed through his candidates as his wounds throbbed periodically.

Every so often, he came to a name that made him pause. A touch too unpredictable to anticipate, not bold enough to use his tech properly but backed by solid funding. Sacrifices and comprises abound, and Quentin felt comfortable saying he was irked by both. He came to a fourth such name. An obscure but powerful weapons dealer. Based near Queens but trying to break into the global market. A secure web of consistent buyers to their name. They just needed someone with brains and some truly revolutionary tricks up their sleeve to give them that extra push. Quentin smiled to himself, he could be that push. Hell he _had_ been that push ever since his days at Stark Industries, much as he wished he’d never invested any of his time or effort in that worthless man or his company. He raised his pen, feeling certain that this one deserved a check mark when a small, quiet thought suddenly wormed its way into his head.

_Would Peter work with them?_

The answer to that was an undeniable negative, but what else could you expect from a person like Peter? He was stuck in a polarized mindset - good against evil, success or failure, the wrong way or the right. A dangerous way of thinking, one that would surely get the kid killed one day. And Stark really expected someone like _that_ to carry the burden of E.D.I.T.H? The legacy of Iron Man? Quentin huffed to himself. Just another delusion of a spoiled playboy. Peter wasn’t the perfect hero by any means, but he was sure as hell more than an Iron Man clone. Not that it was a high bar to clear, Quentin snickered bitterly. Stark had done nothing but step on the backs of others and Peter had been his final victim in a line of forty or so years worth of victims. 

If Stark had taught him anything, the so-called ‘right way’ was useless unless you held all the cards and Quentin’s current hand was meagre at best. Yet, his pen hovered over the name, hesitating despite the obvious answer.

_Oh to hell with it all._

He crossed out the candidate and didn’t let himself look at it again for the rest of the day. _Giving it up like that, huh?_ That nagging voice in his head sighed, _You’re in the last position one can be choosy in and you’re going to just turn up your nose at a juicy opportunity like that? Because some kid was nice to you? He’s nice to everyone._

Quentin’s fingers clenched. Soreness forced his hands to relax and he turned the page. 

A little ways overhead, a tiny shadow passed by. It moved quicker than any helicopter, plane, or bird. Quentin refused to turn his attention to it.

________________

Quentin didn’t kid himself though, refusing to work with one person just as bad as him didn’t make him any better. He understood himself, he was selfish, he used people if he needed to and remorse in large quantities had only become a development in his life very recently. Of course, he also knew he didn’t want to lose the kid’s companionship and that was part of the reason he kept himself clinging to the nebulous goal of ‘better’ Peter had set for him. That and Peter, in the best way possible, could not take ‘no’ for an answer. He wasn’t content settling for anything but complete happiness for every person he knew.

Quentin feared it, in a way. That indomitable kindness. The kid’s refusal to accept any and all forms of evil. It was a sweetly ironic sentiment considering Peter’s previous employ to the world’s most prolific con artist and warmonger. Despite Stark’s undeniable grip on him and his past, Peter was just so…different. His reluctance to even accept E.D.I.T.H, the gently self-deprecating humour, the fact that he was capable of any form of honesty. It was all such a relief.

A relief and a blasted inconvenience. Stark had left E.D.I.T.H to Peter, which Quentin had needed to bolster his numbers. Not to mention the electrifying satisfaction of finally taking a portion what should have always been his. Ergo, the need to slip into Peter’s good graces. A simple task all things considered. The role of a surrogate mentor was definitely a new one for him, but he’d fit himself into the niche in Peter’s heart as if he was always meant to be there. Of course, therein lied the problem. He’d been such a perfect fit that he’d nearly forgotten that wasn’t what he was. _Who_ he was. Emotions were often pesky, clinging things and this…whatever it was he felt was no exception.

He had trapped himself. Started reciprocating the care Peter had for him. He’d never intended to create a two-way connection. Their bond had been forged in Quentin’s machinations but somewhere along the line he had lost control and it had grown away from him, like parched vines searching for something else. For the life of him, Quentin hadn’t been able to give that ‘something else’ a name and he sure as hell couldn’t now. Peter wasn’t a part of his crew, and he wasn’t a lackey being used by S.H.I.E.L.D.

Peter was Peter.

As if his name had been called, a red and black form leapt at the surface of Quentin’s large window, hitting the glass and sticking with practiced ease and a satisfying ‘bonk’. And suddenly, Spider-Man was peering into Quentin’s apartment, the lenses in his eyes widening and narrowing as they adjusted to the differing lights.

“Can I help you?” Quentin had no doubt that Peter could hear him through the glass.

Spider-Man made a show of squinting down at Quentin. He pointed at the man in the chair and alternated between thumbs up and thumbs down. _Are you alright?_

Quentin pretended to look himself up and down, “I guess I’ll live.”

The masked head tilted and after another short pause, leaned in even closer to the glass and breathed a sizeable circle of fog. Peter raised his hand from the window and promptly drew a smiley face on the misty glass. Almost immediately, the little face was drenched in rain and sucked down with the rest of the droplets. Undeterred, Spider-Man blew out another patch of fog and drew something else. A cartoonish rendition of a man in an armoured chest plate. He wore a cape and in lieu of a head was a sizeable bubble. From his stick-figure hands, beams of energy radiated in waves.

Quentin leaned forward in his chair, inspecting the drawing like an art critic would look upon a revolutionary piece of work. He couldn’t help his smile. After a moment of thinking, Quentin puffed hot air onto his window and traced in an addition. A shorter stick figure with a large head and distinct, almond-shaped eyes. He swung from a strand of thread, through a small flock of ‘m’ shaped birds. Peter pulled both hands from the glass, leaning back as much as his position would allow. The lenses of his mask narrowed as he gave the doodles a small, appreciative applause. It reminded Quentin of a cat blinking slowly when pleased.

He suddenly realized he could barely feel his injuries. He decided not to dwell on the implications of that.

“Go on.” Quentin leaned back in the recliner, pretending to turn his attention back to his list. “You’ve got bicycle thieves to catch.” 

In the corner of his eye, he saw Spider-Man wave once more and let go of the window. Falling with ease.

Quentin stared at the empty air for a long moment. 

________________

Peter pushed himself up on his tiptoes, straightened the flyer against the telephone pole and promptly stapled it down with a satisfying click. Quentin watched him step back, briefly inspect his handiwork, deem it up to snuff and continue on his way. Quentin fell into step beside him, shifting the small folder of charity fliers in his hands into a more secure grip. He took another sheet from the pile and passed it to Peter who, in turn, stapled it onto the next telephone pole they came across. 

Despite Peter’s packed schedule he’d apparently taken up even more volunteer work at the Blip charity his aunt worked for. As Peter and as Spider-Man, and today’s task was distributing advertisement for the coming events. That afternoon, Quentin’s phone had dinged to life with a message asking if he’d be up to ‘hang out’ by way of ‘helping’ put up the fliers. Quentin, who still occasionally fumbled with the idea of Peter wanting to spend time with him for the god damn sake of it, had been too busy hurrying out the door to tell the kid the job would go faster if he just webbed himself across the rooftops.

“Is this how far the care of normal people gets Blip foundations these days?” Quentin had asked, a sardonic edge to his voice as he strolled up to the kid waiting for him on the corner.

Peter smiled as he approached, and the sight was still gratifying.

“Yep and now you’re out here with us.” Peter said, offering up a folder full of standard paper sized adverts.

“Lucky me.” Quentin accepted the folder with an unimpressed line in his brow. 

“I know right? Let’s go.”

And so the day went.

He ought be wondering why the hell he’d been so eager. Two weeks ago he certainly would have. Seriously, that rushed, earnest feeling had bordered on desperation. God damn embarrassing. And yet. Since that night in the bathroom, bleeding in Peter’s hands, feeling secure despite all the shit that had happened…well something in Quentin had caved and accepted that something was changing.

He was changing. 

Still, the urge to resist wouldn’t let him be so he relented to that as well. 

“You’re making a mistake kid. Helping me.”

Peter looked unbothered, “You keep saying that but you still haven’t done anything wrong since you moved in. You know that right?”

Well, he hadn’t _yet_ but that was entirely different can of worms that Quentin skirted around. “No see this-this is why I tricked you in the first place! You believe in people. You wait for bad things to happen. If you had a damn brain you’d beat me to a pulp, throw me in prison and be done with it.” He said it like he really thought Peter would, like he actually thought that little of him. For a moment, Quentin wondered if Stark had been on to something when he’d proclaimed him ‘unstable’. He couldn’t stop asking questions he already knew the answers to. 

Peter looked at Quentin like he’d told a bad joke. “I’d never do that. It’s so wrong it’s not even funny. I’m ready for you if you do screw up of course but y’know you haven’t so no worries!”

Quentin feigned despair, “We went through so much together. And after it all you’ve learned nothing.” Truth be told, seeing the kid be so certain in what he believed in was a relief. The world was built on the spineless, corrupt and blind but he liked watching Peter push against it. It was…he’d used the word _naive_ in the past, and it still tempted him but lately it had a strong contender. Seeing that Peter was special, even without his powers, it was uplifting.

“Hey now. I actually learned quite a lot thanks to you.”

Of course, Peter didn’t need to know that. Quentin kept wry derision on his lips, “Do tell...”

“First. Always do a background check.” Peter held up a finger, cheeky smile illuminating his face. Quentin schooled his mouth to an unamused line.

Another finger raised. “Second. It’s not intention, it’s action that defines people.”

“Poetic.”

“I try. And of course, number three. The things that’ll help me the most are probably gonna come from me.”

“I take it that means you’re not using the glasses anymore?” He'd never confirmed the state of the drones.

“Oh E.D.I.T.H? Yeah you’re never gonna see her again. That’s a guarantee.”

Quentin could see the logic there. He detested it to his very bones, but being recognized as a threat to the world was naturally going to lock him out of that kind of power. He ground his teeth, trying to keep it subtle. Peter seemed to catch wind of his frustration regardless, as he had a knack for, and Quentin could see sympathy in his eyes. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not either. And neither is S.H.I.E.L.D.” The kid said.

That made Quentin pause.

“Pardon?”

Peter nodded, “Yeah the whole thing’s shutdown. Since Mister Stark left them to me, I figured I should do the best thing possible with her and I…destroyed the glasses and discontinued the system. It took a while but yeah, she’s gone.” He had the tone of someone whose pet was put down years ago. He’d already moved on.

“You gave her up?” Quentin said, his biting sarcasm suddenly failing. “Why would you-?”

“Like I said when we met, I’m a Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man. The kind of power E.D.I.T.H and the drones are made for are...more the speed of a different sort of person.” He gave Quentin a sheepish, rueful shrug.

“A person like Stark?” Quentin asked.

Peter itched his nose, thinking. “No. Personally, I don’t think anyone should have something that can do what E.D.I.T.H can. Not Mister Stark, and definitely not me. I mean you saw what I almost did.”

Quentin nodded wordlessly, already running the loss through his head. E.D.I.T.H and her drones had been an indomitable creation of Stark’s. Shitting on all basic rights of privacy and general freedoms for every human on the planet. Although Quentin had sought to use her drones primarily to enhance his work as Mysterio, he was inclined to call that search and destroy ability a masterpiece. If a twisted masterpiece. And Peter had just...thrown it aside. If Quentin knew _that_ was a possibility he would have shot for taking ownership of her again. Someone needed to wield her, someone who understood and respected E.D.I.T.H’s abilities. Quentin had needed to take E.D.I.T.H. And he had, but the kid had taken her back. And now she was gone. No one had won.

He looked at Peter Parker. Peter who had so foolishly- _fearlessly_ \- shown Quentin everything about himself on the day they met. Peter who for whatever reason could entice Quentin to follow suit and drag his true self to light.

“Responsible of you…” Quentin muttered.

Looking at him now, Quentin found himself glad for more than one reason that E.D.I.T.H had not ended up in Peter Parker’s hands. The kid opened his mouth to respond but a deep crack in the sidewalk cut him off, his toe caught it and he stumbled forward with a yelp.

Quentin moved before he realized it, he lunged forward and caught Peter’s shoulder in a firm grip. He planted his feet, steadying him. 

“Careful.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

No, the glasses hadn’t suited Peter back in Prague. They wouldn’t suit him now.

They kept walking.

They had gone half a block before Peter spoke up again. “So, about the bar fight…” The kid caught Quentin’s eye as he took another flyer, “Can I ask what that was about?”

“Just a disagreement, kid. Don’t worry.” Quentin said breezily. He caught Peter’s sceptical eye and grinned like a shark. “I won some argument and none of them liked that much.”

“Well clearly!” Peter’s exasperation puffed him up and the sight amused Quentin immensely. “Do you always get into fights when you disagree with someone?”

“Only when they matter, kid.”

“Wait the fight or the person?”

“Guess.”

“Oh my god, man…”

________________

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Hey Mr Beck_

_So I said we could talk about your past with Mr Stark once you healed up_

**Sent to:** Peter

_I do remember something like that, yes._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_I was wondering if you’d be up to that today?_

_I’m out of school at 2:45, I could swing by this afternoon?_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Sure, kid. If that’s what you want._

_I’ll see you at 3:00._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Oh nice :)_

_Hey so_

_Is talking about this gonna get…weird?_

_Just curious_

**Sent to:** Peter

_Oh most definitely. Yes._

**Sent to:** Sunglasses Stealer (Mr Beck)

_Well now im nervous_

_Mr Beck?_

_Mr Beck???_

_Beck!????? Why!?!??!_

_Oh my god man._

________________

Quentin paced the apartment, frequently glancing back at his phone, at Peter’s last few messages. Every time he tried to respond, and he tried several times, nothing he said seemed right. His first instinct was a joke, some smarmy comment to alleviate the kid’s nerves. But Stark was a raw, open wound for both of them, and Quentin’s grudges raged against being treated with flippancy. Even if he was the source. 

So, time to get serious.

Serious _without_ doing something that would endanger himself or the kid.

The temptation to reschedule this particular chat, push it back to some day _not today_ tugged at him. Which in itself was an oddity, Quentin had never shied away from the unsavoury before, no he’d embraced it, dove in headfirst because his superior wits always ensured his survival. No this was something they both needed, but he’d need tact. Maybe more than he had to give at them moment. The kid so blindly worshiped Stark that one negative word against the man could turn Peter against Quentin. And then where would he be?

Alright, save the personal resentments for another time, they could come back to that. First, he’d just give the facts. His side of the story along with all of the slights he’d endured in the years before they met. He’d explain why everything had been necessary, make Peter understand.

Quentin looked at the clock on the wall. 8:37 A.M.

An entire day to prepare. Though Quentin knew he could never slap a script on Peter, he could guess pretty damn well. His resolve set, Quentin went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and prepared himself for a long morning of guessing. 

________________

Knowing what to say, as he most often did, was comforting. A surefire path to complete control was knowing what other people wanted and needed to hear. Complete control over any given situation, fabricated or not, meant security and security meant Quentin was primed to take whatever he happened to be going for. Which was why, when Peter knocked on his door at 3:12 that afternoon, Quentin opened the door with perfectly steady hands and invited the kid to take a seat with absolutely no clenched tension in his back and hands.

Yeah, complete control.

“Okay, okay.” Peter sat forward on the couch, hands clasped together, “Okay, tell me everything.”

Quentin nodded, took a deep slow breath, made a mental note to not tell him _everything_ , and said, “For a few years, before the Blip, I worked for Stark Industries. I was the head of a robotics and holographic project and I created something revolutionary.” Quentin allowed himself a proud smile but it was quick to fall from his face.

“But Stark, he- when it was complete, he showed it off to the world but he told everyone that _he_ invented it, and decided it should be called ‘B.A.R.F’. He used it for his own personal therapy sessions and mounted it behind glass when he didn’t want it anymore.” Quentin paused, looking to Peter for early signs of belief or lack thereof. He found neither, only a mixture of bewilderment and some sort of dawning realization. 

Undeterred, Quentin continued, “I made that tech for the world and he took it for himself. And when I protested he fired me. Called me ‘unstable’ and scapegoated me into becoming the reason that my life’s work was never released to the public.” One would think that the years between Quentin and the tarnished remains of his greatest creation would soften the sting of the blow. One would think, and they’d be very very wrong. 

The kid finally spoke up. “Wait- but. I don’t get it. He just took it away? Like that? Mister Stark made mistakes but he wouldn’t-” Peter cut himself off, running his hands through his hair.

“You didn’t know Stark, Peter.” Quentin tempered his voice to chilled steel, trying to keep it as impersonal as possible. “You didn’t know him and he didn’t know you.” Stark had proved as much when he armed the sixteen-year old, self-proclaimed ‘Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man’ with a global network of assassin drones. “But that’s not your fault. Nobody really knew him. Not even the people he said he cared about. The closest anyone came to seeing the real Stark were the people he stepped on to get ahead.” Or rather, even more ahead. Quentin remembered that MIT convention like it was yesterday, after all these years the pain was fresh and the bitterness seeped from the past into the present.

“People like you and me.”

“But- what does this have to do with _me_? Mister Stark helped me. He gave me my suits-.” Peter’s voice rose into a higher-pitched croak.

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. 

“Like he gave you E.D.I.T.H? Like he dropped all that shit on you and didn’t tell you anything important like how to operate her or what she was supposed to do? Or even who- who was supposed to take her?” Quentin heard his voice lower as his hate bubbled to the surface. “You don’t need him, kid. You never did. If you keep buying the bullshit about the world ‘needing’ a new Iron Man you’re going to get killed. He’s nothing but poison.”

“But what are you!?” The half-shout exploded from Peter as he leapt up. “How can you say I shouldn’t trust Mister Stark when you’ve lied to me too?” The kid was wound so tightly Quentin could see him tremble. “And you used me to get E.D.I.T.H! Why are you criticizing this now?”

“That was different.” He said, and it was but Peter looked far from convinced. “I was just trying to-” His voice became soft _weak_ and Peter spoke over him easily.

“You said I could have saved him! If I had been better, Mister Stark might be alive. You said that to me. Why say all that if you hate him so much?”

Quentin looked away, his tirade grinding to a halt. He hadn’t wanted to to say that but he’d needed to. Peter had discovered the drone, become a liability and a threat. Mysterio couldn’t abide any loose ends so Quentin had moved in to cut Peter off. But that was hardly an argument and just like the drone’s holograms, his words in Berlin had been…less than genuine. Designed to harm and mislead. The truth was, Quentin would be more than happy to dig up Stark and shoot him fifty times over but he sure as hell couldn’t say _that_ right now.

“None of that- none of that matters anymore, Peter.” He said instead and the look the kid made at that made Quentin want to immediately take it back. Wide-eyed, alarmed and despairing. The face of a puppy well and truly kicked. _Shit._ He hadn’t meant it like that. He watched, helpless as Peter took a tiny step back. Why the hell were his words failing now!? Was being in Peter’s presence some fucked up catch-22?

“I’m sorry.” Peter said softly, “I don’t get it.”

“No,” Quentin answered, hollow and cold, “No you don’t.”

“I-I should go…” Peter’s voice was breathless, his body deflating. Quentin had made him like that. His body felt hot. Pressure pounded behind his eyes. He nodded.

“You should go.” Anywhere was better for him than being around Quentin.

He made himself watch the kid leave.

The door didn’t slam exactly, more like ‘close slightly louder than what was typically expected’ but it’s effect was largely the same. The silence that followed was suffocating, a black hole that swallowed every drop of Quentin’s anger until all that was left was a dark, exhausting misery.

He’d never felt this bad about his own missteps before, anger only came when another person wronged him. He clenched his fists until they shook. In terms of quantity, the hurt was comparable to the day Stark fired him but a distinction remained. He’d hated- he still hated Stark for robbing him of everything but that rage had been channeled into plans for revenge. He’d been able to focus it on someone else, as he always did when people inevitably failed him.

Now though…now there was no one to rage at but himself.

…

Ah screw it, he was too tired for rage.

Feet dragging, Quentin made his way across the apartment and stepped onto the small balcony. The late afternoon sun was irritatingly bright and cheerful but the noise from the street was more bearable than the dead quiet waiting inside. He leaned on the railing, stared out at nothing, and thought about Peter. It was all he was good at these days.

_I believe in you…_

Believed in him to do what? How was he supposed to stop being who he was?

________________

Quentin stayed on the balcony until the sun went down, then stayed out as the sky grew dark. He kept his phone on hand but didn’t turn it on. They _would_ talk about this again just not over text, that would be some level of low that he wanted neither of them to sink to. Too impersonal, and while Quentin rarely objected to impersonal, he knew that the something between him and Peter demanded better than that. He thought he’d done better today but apparently not.

Quentin heaved a sigh and tried to focus on the skyline

The light pollution in New York was an everyday tragedy. No stars to speak of. The lack of which led Quentin’s thoughts back to Europe. Though Quentin thought of Europe less and less these days, he’d remember the sights for a long time. He’d hope he’d remember them anyway, his team had studied them for years setting up Operation Mysterio. A wave of dry amusement rolled over him, somehow those times had become the simpler ones. At least he’d known what the hell he was doing back then.

As Quentin stood and mused, a red and black shadow made its way up the wall below him before clambering onto the balcony.

“Ah ahem- good evening, citizen.” The shadow said in comical attempt at a deep voice.

“Spider-Man.” Quentin said, his voice heavy with irony, “What brings you you to my humble home?” 

Fabric shifted against fabric as Peter pulled his mask off. For a moment, they both pretended to be interested in the streams of headlights passing by in the streets.

“You’re still good to hang with…” Peter drummed his fingers on the railing. “This is just one fight. You’re still good.” He said quietly.

Quentin remembered his plans to take the world and make it his own. He’d thought he deserved to have it all and a sizeable part of him still believed that. His right hand gripped the cold metal railing.

“You think so, do you?”

He might deserve the world but he didn’t deserve Peter. Any part of him. But Peter wasn’t going to stop giving. That was his whole thing. The kid never gave up, especially when it would be easier on him if he did. He would never accept that Quentin wasn’t someone worth spending his kindness on. And the real kicker was: Quentin never wanted him to.

So, Quentin didn’t want Peter to leave. Peter didn’t want to leave Quentin. A good enough combo but something was still wrong. Missing. 

_You can be you, just…better._

“Sorry.” Quentin said, though he struggled to get a handle on what exactly he was apologizing for. He had meant what he said, and Quentin Beck did not pass up the chance to speak his mind. Even when Stark had demonstrated that doing so could cost him everything. It had been a risk, telling Peter about Stark had done to him. Yanking the rug from his feet so mercilessly. A necessary burden but it- _Quentin_ had been right. He had been so sure.

Still, something about the whole argument, it didn’t _feel_ right. Quentin hadn’t wanted his words to wound, he’d just wanted to be honest. Because Peter needed someone who was willing to tell him the truth. Even when it hurt. In the past, no one had wanted to tell the newbie super-powered teenager the whole story, so they alleviated their guilt with half-truths when they weren’t brushing him off entirely. Quentin could change that, he knew he could. 

_I control the truth!_

_Mysterio is the truth!_

Hurting Peter didn’t feel like a necessary burden anymore.

It felt like a crime.

An unforgivable crime.

“I’m sorry.” Quentin said again.

“It’s okay.” God damn that voice, reducing Quentin to this…this sentimental _mush_. It was stirring up guilt where Quentin thought he had stomped it out. “It’s okay.” Peter said again. “I’m sorry too.” He added, “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“Hm. It _is_ a terribly heinous offence in most countries…but I’ll let you get away with it this time.”

Peter rolled his eyes, showing a little smile. Quentin winked at him. He felt a crushing, dominating weight being lifted off his chest. He could finally breath properly, for the first time all day. He wondered if Peter felt the same.

“You know what?”

“Hm?” 

“Things are more ‘okay’ than you think. More than most people think.”

“Do you really believe that?” Quentin asked, genuinely wondering. 

The kid nodded, “Yeah, I think everything is some kind of alright.” He looked at Quentin and his sage expression seemed far older than the rest of him, “And even if it’s not, I think it can be.” Peter scooted closer to gently bump his shoulder against Quentin’s.

“Eventually.” Either of them could have said it.

Quentin bumped him back, the movement squashing any distance left between them. The closeness sparked an idea in Quentin’s mind. He acted before it was fully formed.

He drew the kid into his arms, handling him like glass. To his relief, Peter pressed up against him eagerly, making up for where Quentin’s uncertainties held him back. Emboldened, Quentin’s instincts urged him to hold on tightly but he didn’t want his arms to become a cage. He was…less versed in physical tenderness than he wished he was at that moment. So he stepped cautiously, keeping his touch light but present. He brought his chin to rest on top of Peter’s head, the waves of brown hair tickled his nose and he closed his eyes. A late night chill had rolled in, but Quentin hardly felt it. What he did feel was a slightly smaller, softer hand wrap around his and squeeze gently. With some adjustments, Quentin managed to tangle their fingers together and squeeze back. 

_I’m sorry._

_It’s okay._

________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading :)
> 
> p.s - e.d.i.t.h is shady as hell no matter who's using it 
> 
> p.s.s - did anyone else get the feeling that the writers kinda forced Quentin to be crazy in the third act cause they realized he was making good points and didn't want the audience to support him?


	5. I Love You Like The Way I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becoming a 'better' person is a finicky task, not everyone can be as selflessly kind as Peter Parker. Still, the world turns, and things change and some people try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last few points:  
> i - did you guys hear about Sony taking back Spider-Man LMAO!!! Fight me Disney  
> ii - this chapter’s a tad longer than the others - there’s just so much to say with these guys  
> iii - if you’re interested, I’m thinking of making this a small series. The road of redemption is very very long after all ;). They’d be written like SCH but maybe less than 20k words lol  
> iv - i'm also considering editing the summary, so if it does change, that’s why and nothing else in the work will be altered 
> 
> enjoy!

“So you made a whole team of people to create Mysterio?”

“I did.”

“And they all joined because you all…hated Mister Stark. Because of how he treated you?”

“You’re oversimplifying it, Peter. But yes, that was the bottom line.”

“Oh man…”

Quentin propped an elbow on the back of the sofa and leaned his cheek on his fist. His beard tickled his knuckles. He took in the image of Peter smiling and talking on his living room sofa, his backpack was stuffed with school assignments, all with imminent due dates. All of them wasting away as he sat beside Quentin and chatted away the hours. He stored the picture away in his mind, for when times would inevitably get darker.

True friendship, he decided, meant consciously doing that.

Then Peter opened his hand to run it through his hair allowing Quentin to catch sight of a bandaged wound on his palm. It was messily dressed, already falling apart. He could see beads of dull red soaking through the taped-down gauze. Huh, so much for super-healing. 

“What happened here?”

Peter blinked and looked at his hand. He’d probably forgotten the cut was there. “Oh, I had robotics lab today and my hand slipped on a sharp piece of metal.”

Quentin’s mouth twisted, “Hang on.” He ducked into the bathroom in search of his first aid kit. Ever since the pub, and the reminder of how annoying being injured was, he’d stocked up. He grabbed a roll of medical tape, some gauze and the rubbing alcohol and sat back down. The kid babbled his usual protests, but a look from Quentin ground him to a halt and he held his hand out. The dressing peeled away easily and Quentin, to spare Peter’s embarrassment, worked as fast as he could without rushing.

“Thanks…”

Quentin focused on dripping antiseptic onto the wound, “I just don’t want you getting blood on my couch. I’ve seen your file, who knows what’s in it after that spider bit you.” He tore a short length of gauze to the sound of Peter’s breathy laughter. “Yeah okay, that’s fair.” Peter said.

“So, how was school?”

The kid made a face that said _it certainly exists and that’s all the solid knowledge I’ve got on that_ , “Oh, not bad. Not bad. Aced a Spanish test today and took an Art History thing that I _think_ went alright. Not sure yet, though. Don’t get it back for, like, a week.”

“Then you can worry about it in a week.” Quentin taped down the new bandage and scooted back, just a little, “How do you feel?” He asked.

Taking a moment to ponder his newly bandaged palm, Peter asked, “You mean my hand or…?”

“Well, that too. But, I mean about what I told you. About me and Stark. How do you feel?” Laying his concern this bare felt so damn strange it bordered on wrong. He sucked it up.

“It’s weird for sure. But it’s definitely a step up from before when it was weird _and_ it hurt. I think I’m still going over everything in my head though.” 

“I’d be worried if you weren’t, kid.”

“Ah hah, yeah…You know,” The kid’s face warred between looking bemused or mournful, “In Prague, when I found the projector and I found out about you…I was so confused but then later I was like really sad.”

Quentin frowned, this was the first he was hearing of anything specific about their falling out. Confused made sense, he’d designed the illusions in the train yard to thoroughly screw with Peter’s mind after all but sorrow…Quentin quirked a brow, “Why were you sad?” He asked.

“‘Cause it felt like someone- someone I was friends with had-um died? Maybe not died but vanished in a way that meant I would never see them again. It felt like the person I thought you were was real and I lost him and he’d been replaced by a guy who looked just like him but was…uh really, _really_ different. The feeling was weird and I had no idea what to think about the ‘new’ person who took your place. Other than, like, I gotta go stop him.” 

“You haven’t lost me.” Shit. That jumped out before Quentin realized it was coming. He moved to take it back, but Peter was staring at him all wide-eyed and hopeful and the words turned to Blip dust in Quentin’s mouth. “I didn’t go anywhere. Thanks to you.” Came out instead.

Had he always been such a sap? No. No that was the kid’s fault. He tempered it with a reality check.

“But listen, Peter. If it’s me you’re really after, you should know I’m never gonna be a headliner hero. Or really a hero, not in the way you imagine them.” Quentin wanted Peter’s friendship, he wanted Peter to want his friendship, but if it was ever going to mean anything, they needed to be on the same damn page. If Peter could stomach him at his lowest and stayed- well, it’d go a long way to setting Quentin’s mind at ease. “When I said I’m not a good person, I wasn’t lying.”

“You say that like you wanna give up.” Peter tilted his head, “Do you?”

“And get carted off to prison?" _And let you down?_ “‘Course not. This is just a warning. Don’t raise your hopes too high, kid. If they fall on your head it’s gonna hurt.”

“I’m- heh I’m pretty good at catching things that fall on me. Besides, you’re pretty nice to me.” Peter held up his newly bandaged hand, smiling.

“That doesn’t mean I’m nice to rest of the world, kid. My goodwill can only stretch so far.” Quentin caught Peter’s hand again and pinched the wound to emphasize the point.

Peter made a pained noise and jerked away, Quentin let him go. Still, the kid smiled at him. “But it _can_ stretch?” Peter asked.

“If it makes you feel better, sure.” 

Undeterred, Peter leaned back into the cushions and folded his arms, looking triumphant and a little bit smug, “It really does, thanks.”

A brief silence. Peter looked less downcast but a thoughtful shadow remained in his eyes.

“You know, I fought another guy who didn’t like Mister Stark either. It was a while ago, back before the Blip but the stuff you told me kinda lines up with what he said. I can’t be super specific, privacy and all, but he had lost a lot because of Stark Industries too and I guess he thought two wrongs would make a right.”

“This man sounds very wise.”

“Ehh hard to say _that_ , I didn’t get to know him like I know you. But this pattern…it’s making me think a lot, you know?” 

Much as he would have liked to, Quentin refrained from commenting on that. He was more interested in watching the kid come to his own conclusions. He went back to the bathroom to put away the first aid supplies and grabbed a beer from the fridge on the way back.

Leaning on the arm of the couch, Quentin took a slow swig. “It’s getting late, kid.” He said softly. 

As if he’d been dunked in ice water Peter jerked up and did a double take at the wall clock, his mouth slightly agape. “Oh! Oh yeah right okay! One sec…” He grabbed his backpack and made a beeline for the window. Whenever he was in a hurry, he opted to skip doors entirely. Now departing, Peter stuck one of his legs out the window, paused and looked back. “Thanks for letting me in by the way.”

Quentin stared at his beer, condensation soaking his palm. “You’d find another way in if I didn’t.”

Peter shrugged with his face, “I didn’t mean you’re apartment.”

Quentin blinked at that. He looked at the window. Peter was gone, leaving the open window and the curtains billowing in the early evening breeze in his wake.

He had no response to that.

________________

In all of Quentin’s years of virtual reality studies (and there were _many_ years of that), he had learned that no two artists were exactly alike. To construct entire worlds using only ones, zeroes and precise lighting required a tactile hand. His team had been the best in the business, taking his instructions to run through the machine, producing a world so fantastical and impossible that it had the director of S.H.I.E.L.D eating from Quentin’s palm. Still, each one of them had all had their quirks. Their preferences. One of the straggling problems throughout the operation had been settling the ratio of green lasers to green smoke. Two of his animators had damn near come to blows over that.

That aside, Quentin himself was an expert in camera work. He knew how to work the human eye, make people focus on what he wanted them to focus on. It was a skill honed by years of study and hands-on research. Defined, focused, and meticulously crafted.

‘a Film by Peter Parker’ had been made with whatever the exact opposite of all of that was.

“You may be breaking some kinda law by showing me this.” Quentin had said, smirking as he watched Peter struggle with the lagging movie program.

Peter, who had just spilled the details of how he had first met Stark - though Quentin used the word ‘met’ with uncharacteristic magnanimity - in a haste that bordered on frightened, gave a guileless shrug.“I mean-I don’t know who’d keep track of stuff like this but I really don’t think _I’m_ their biggest problem right now. Seriously, Happy didn’t even wipe my phone back when I filmed it. He said he was going to but…nope.”

“Who the hell is Happy?”

“Give it a sec, give it a sec. You’ll see in the first five seconds.”

So, Quentin sat on the couch with Peter on his left with the kid’s laptop on the coffee table between them. Peter was leaning on his knees as he watched the log, enraptured. Quentin, on the other hand, sat back. Polite interest written in his posture as he forced himself to look beyond the veil of awkward charm and focus on figuring out what actually happened. Said charm proved a challenging layer to breech. Hard cuts and unflattering angels abound. Faster than the average watcher to comfortably keep up with and plenty of blurry shots to emphasize that. But for all the flaws, it was filled to the brim with _Peter_ energy so infectious that Quentin was drawn in and even laughed out loud at several points.

Then the late Iron Man was on screen and all the good humour inside him hardened into jagged, molten glass. _Ugh._ Good old Tony Stark - _’what are you wearing, something skimpy I hope’ -_ wretched and irreverent and exactly like Quentin remembered him. He hadn’t changed at all! Even when shoehorning himself into the life on an innocent teenager, Stark acted like he belonged there because why wouldn’t the self-absorbed bastard not belong anywhere he decided to go!? 

“That suit he gave you come with an instruction manual?” Quentin kept his eye on Peter’s shoulders as they tensed.

“Ehhh no not really.” Peter’s ears turned a light shade of pink as he turned back to make tentative eye contact. “It was a more ‘learn-by-doing’ kinda thing. And I _did_ figure it out but then it turns out there were a bunch of sub-systems hidden inside and those were bit…much.”

Quentin decided not to ask about these ‘sub-systems’, there’d be time for that later. As usual, Stark was overwhelming his thoughts but now there seemed to be even more reasons to despise him. The world called Iron Man a hero. And the world couldn’t be debated now that Stark had martyred himself and wasn’t around to face any consequences. Not that he did when he was alive but that wasn’t the point. Quentin’s mind kicked itself into racing, linking what the kid had told him and what the Film was showing. He knew Peter had been easy money when it came to the powerful using enhanced individuals but watching the negligent apathy from the very people responsible for smuggling the kid out of the country really drove home how little anyone cared. Quentin remembered how Fury had treated the kid through all of Europe, even if Peter chose to forget. That had barely been worse than anything this Happy guy or Stark himself was guilty of.

Truly astonishing in the worst possible way. 

_‘No one has actually told me why I’m in Berlin. Or what I’m doing. Something about…Captain America going crazy…’_

The torrent of bitter ferocity resurfaced from Quentin’s core, his jaw tightened until it was sore. Used. It was the only word for it. The kid had been used by Stark and the trouble began much earlier than E.D.I.T.H. It was just like Quentin’s situation if not worse and that realization tore a bitter chuckle from him. What a fucking awful thing for them to have in common. But it wouldn’t be everything, if they didn’t let it be. Quentin took a deep breath, reminded himself that he wasn’t in that bar in Prague, surrounded by his like-minded team. Words. He needed to use his words. Peter needed- _deserved_ \- the truth, but Quentin didn’t need to wield it like a weapon.

The video looped itself twice more before Peter lowered the volume and sat back. They looked at each other, heads filled with noise but neither eager to broach this topic. 

Well, Quentin was the adult, he should probably be the one.

“Did you ever figure out why he took you to Berlin?” He kept his voice soft, not at all surprised when Peter shook his head.

“No, no I never got a chance to ask after I got home. So much went down right after that it just…never came up again.”

“Hm. And I’m guessing your ‘internship’ was unpaid?”

“Other than the Spider-Man tech, which I needed for Berlin, yeah. How’d you know?”

“I worked for his company for years, kid. You hear stories.”

He could see why people resorted to lies when the going got tough. It was easier, less pain for yourself and the people you cared for. Not that Quentin would ever, ever equate Stark feeding his bullshit to Peter as care for the kid. Peter not being told why he’d been whisked away to fistfight the most powerful solider in the United States was nothing more than a connivence play by Stark. And if he was piecing Peter’s story together correctly, his so-called mentor had kicked the kid to the curb the moment he wasn’t seen as a necessity anymore. _Stark has a history of that…it’s the whole reason you were able to build your crew._ If Quentin was reading all this right, after the fight in Berlin, Stark only spoke to Peter when it was convenient. Calling it teaching, mentoring, or even an internship was pure bullshit. It was just another PR stunt, only with a much smaller target audience than Stark’s usual fare. And tragically, Peter had fallen for it.

Well, he was a smart kid. He could still be saved. Quentin could still turn this around and he wouldn’t sink to Stark’s level. Lying might be the easy way out, but Quentin Beck had never been one to covet the so-called ‘easy way’. It had never done him any favours, after all.

To start, he’d need to offer up a truth of his own. Something to ease the way for the more painful honesty he had lined up. 

“I’m…I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m not sorry for what I was trying to do before you found my projector, but I wish you and your friends hadn’t gotten involved.” Quentin said. “You were never supposed to find out- and believe me I _know_ how that sounds- but my team screwed up and you were the one who had to pay for it. I wanted to give you a chance to have what you wanted, go back on your vacation, back to the girl…but it didn’t work out. I’m sorry about that.”

Apologies weren’t a strong suit of his, rare was the time when Quentin’s guilt compelled him. It felt clunky and unpolished and real. And Peter seemed to agree as he smiled sadly. “I forgive you. I do. Can’t speak for anyone else but I forgive you.” Peter said as he began wringing his hands. “It just seems like so much effort to get back at someone who’s already gone.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “Stark used me. Stole my life’s work and threw me out like yesterday’s trash when I wouldn’t kiss his feet for it. I can never forget that and I couldn’t let the world forget either.”

“Even though you used people too?”

“…It was necessary, kid. Someday you’ll see that. I could never have become Mysterio without other people. He was the product of what everyone saw.” Quentin gripped his knee, massaging the fabric of his pants. Even to his ears, the argument was watery. He didn’t want to scare Peter away, but he needed him to understand. There was a critical shortage of deception he could hide behind because the kid had done his damnedest to dig his way to the truth of Quentin Beck. Now that Quentin was giving it to him- he _couldn’t_ screw it up. Couldn’t lose anything more. 

“…I think I get what you mean. I can’t say I agree but…you know. I don’t think I can say you’re totally wrong either.”

Right. Because Peter wasn’t the type to tell people what to think. Although well aware of the fact, Quentin couldn’t help but feel disappointed. If Peter ever took over the world, asserted his will over every sentient life form well…Quentin could see himself living with that. Hell, it would probably be preferable to what the world was now.

Peter sighed heavily. “Sometimes it feels like I was so…small next to him. Like he’s Iron Man and he’s got everything and I’m just…me. When I look back it- I mean nothing looks as good as it felt when it happened. But I can’t just _say_ that…you know with everything that’s happened.”

Such was the side-effects of martyrdom, Quentin cracked a wry grin. “Heh. Is that what I’m for?”

“I did say you could do an infinite amount of things.”

“Like refuse to give respect to the dead?”

“Not the wording I’d use but…uh that’s been a big part of it, yeah.”

“Good to know someone’s getting use from it.”

They shared a laugh and though the air was lighter, Quentin had more he wanted to say. 

He dragged his hand over his eyes. They burned slightly. “It eats me up, kid. Thinking of what you could be if Stark had never gotten his hands on you. Trust me when I say, you’ll lose a lot of yourself if you tether onto him.”

“That makes sense.” Peter said, “I don’t regret meeting him, but I know that makes sense but…I’m not quite sure _how_ to let go.”

Quentin’s brow furrowed as he ruminated, he sympathized with that kind of hang up, but if he was honest he was unsure of the best advice he could give. _That’s because you’ve never been happier since Stark dropped off the face of the Earth,_ the voice in his head ribbed. Quentin shook the thought away like an old cobweb. He couldn’t just drop a problem in Peter’s lap and not give him anything to deal with it. “I’d start with everything he gave you. Take it and set it aside, like you left E.D.I.T.H. You’re not some billionaire, weapons manufacturer and that’s a good thing. All that tech Stark threw at you, you don’t need any of it and you don’t need him. You just-”

_Need to be you._

The kid seemed to drink in his words, like a vacuous black hole of fascination. “You sound like you know how this is all supposed to go down.”

“I-no…no, I don’t suppose I do. But we’re both pretty smart, Peter. I think we could figure it out.” It only seemed fair, they had brought so much uncertainty to each other’s lives, maybe if they stayed close they could figure out how to navigate…whatever their lives had become.

“You mean like, work together?” Peter perked up, eyes brightening, “Like we worked together in Europe but real?”

“That’s what I was trying to get at, yes. Kid, you and I are really damn different but that doesn’t have to hold us back. I…I think I can help you, kinda like how you help me.” God, Quentin did not wear frankness well. Every word had been true, but they nearly caught in his throat as graceless and genuine as they were. Just another thing to work on, he supposed.

He saw Peter nodding, “Yeah, this is good. This is really good.” He showed off his teeth in a mischievous grin. “Just as long as it’s on record that I can totally kick your ass if you’re trying to trick me again.”

“I know.” Quentin said, his pride curiously unaffected by the fact.

“Then yeah I think that’d be…” Peter looked at Quentin, his cheeky smile morphing into one of abject hope. “That’d be great.” 

They exchanged warm smiles through the gloom, faces half illuminated by the light from the laptop screen. Quentin hadn’t realized how dark it had gotten. The days were getting shorter and it seemed, for a moment, the only people in the world who mattered were caught in that blue-white halo. Then Peter’s face twitched and he yawned and the moment promptly ended. 

“Tired?” Quentin asked. 

“No-no no no, I’m fine, honestly…” He rubbed his eyes, “Just-uh kind of a-” Peter stretched his arms until he trembled. He looked like he was about to flop overbut was trying very hard to make it seem like he wasn’t.

“Long day at the office?” Quentin raised an eyebrow.

“Mmm?” Peter blinked slowly, “Oh sorry, I was up really late...lotta things going on you know? With school and stuff. Staying up late.”

Quentin, who had thrown the first couple decades of his life directly into the voracious gullet of Stark Industries and followed that up with Operation Mysterio, was well acquainted with the concept of all-nighters. If he remembered correctly, sixteen was about the time when their quantity spiked and would keep rising until about thirty. Young people, not that he considered himself _old_ mind you, thought they could power through any shitty treatment they put their bodies through. And they were right...until they weren’t. Quentin frowned.

“I can imagine. And I realize you can shake off the brute force of a speeding train but do me a favour and let yourself rest. You don’t need to be weighed down by something like this.”

“Tell that to my teachers, man.” 

Quentin had half a mind to do so, but he realized that would be a step too far. Joining a PTA and fighting for student rights was the responsibility of the kid’s actual legal guardian. Still, that didn’t mean there was _nothing_ he could do. Quentin shrugged, “Well, sleep right now then.”

“Wait what?”

“I think you heard me, kid. We got everything important out of the way.”

Peter looked down at the couch. Rubbed his chin, “Wouldn’t that be weird?”

“I’m shocked it’s taken you this long to ask that question. You’ve certainly done weirder things than take a nap on my couch.”

Evidently, it was an ironclad argument. Or the kid was too exhausted to argue - which in itself was a red flag. As Peter kicked off his shoes and got comfortable, Quentin pulled the wool blanket from the back of the sofa and laid it over him. As the feather-light fibres settled over him, Peter met Quentin’s eye, his exhaustion more apparent now that he’d been given permission to rest.

“Mister Beck, is this…is this real?” He already sounded half-asleep. 

Oh, that was an easy one. 

“Peter, this is the most real thing I’ve ever done in my life.” Quentin’s hand landed on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Oh…” Peter murmured, closing his eyes, “Awesome.” 

________________

Quentin held his breath, listening. Soon enough the he could hear Peter’s breathy snores from the other end of the couch. The sound was calming. He didn’t move. Briefly, he weighed the idea of following the kid’s example. He was feeling drowsy, the warm darkness of the room contributing nicely to that, but rest eluded him.

So. Sitting in the dark and thinking. Fine. _Fine._

He looked at Peter through the blue gloom and thought back to his first time sitting on this couch. Bullet wounds in his torso and Peter in his kitchen.

So much, yet so little had happened between then and now. Quentin could never have explained why, not that he felt compelled to do so. He could feel himself being reeled in closer and closer every day. He dithered about more often. Hesitant to dive into work that required his full attention on the chance that Peter would knock on his door or text. He spent what free time he afforded digging up excuses that would compel Peter to stay longer when he came by. At one point he had considered sabotaging his blender, a useless implement and expendable if he damaged it beyond repair, and enlisting the kid to help him “fix” it. A couple steps down from the Elementals he had to admit but it was what he could do with what he had.

He’d never gone through with _that_ plan but it loitered in the back of his mind like that fly that couldn’t find its way out of the stairwell. 

Were they friends? He wanted to believe it. Quentin had never been one go out of his way for companionship. Stark Industries had been cutthroat, no one got close to anyone unless they wanted to become another rung to be climbed by others. Every intern, scientist, and business tycoon alike all fighting for scraps of attention from the big man at the top of the tower. Living by Stark’s schedule, killing themselves to prove that they were just a little bit brighter and better than the person next to them. Quentin had been no exception and every day he cursed himself for the wasted time.

Being discarded had felt, at the time, like the end of the world. All of his hard work, his barehanded struggle to change the world with his brilliance and skill all shoved aside while Stark reached down and plucked his life’s work from his hands. As if Quentin were nothing, and according to the world he _was_ nothing. And the world had the nerve to laud Iron Man as a hero! Guess that was what happened when you were rich enough to buy every news outlet then sell your fabricated story for twice the amount.

On the bright side, nothing like that would ever happen to Quentin again. The ‘business partners’ he had chosen to share his skills with knew better than to cross him (and could easily be punished if they did) and Peter simply…wouldn’t. The kid was good, and it was more than just predictable. It was reliable. Soothing. Thanks to him, Quentin could feel himself slotting into place. It wasn’t at the top of the world, exalted by the masses as the noble hero Mysterio but it also wasn’t the nameless, faceless scientist seething behind the curtain at one of Stark’s countless showings. He was caught in a little grey area, become something greater than he had been and less than what he’d been trying to be. It was an acceptable place to be. 

Funny how that worked sometimes.

He wondered if he really wanted his hatred for that dead billionaire egomaniac to outweigh the _something_ he felt for this selfless, ridiculous, wonderful, living kid. Living despite everything, and his entire life was still ahead of him. Quentin still had years ahead of him too and so many things to do. He would never forget or forgive, but he would continue on. Build a life that grew away from Stark’s shadow and maybe one day he would wake up in a world where the late Iron Man was no more significant to him than a sour aftertaste.

And Peter would live in that world as well. The kid deserved, even more than Quentin did, to wipe his hands of Stark’s undue burdens and stand on his own. Quentin could help him get there, hell he’d been trying to help him ever since they met. Now that the big things were out in the open, maybe there was time to focus on the details. Together. 

Quentin decided then that he would never assign a word to the _something_ that made him care about Peter. If he did it would collapse in on itself and fold into just another role in the long line of roles he’d taken on over the years. One-dimensional. Shallow and meaningless. A waste. 

Quentin had spent his entire life wearing such characters like armour, flashy, protective and skin-deep. Peter had been the one in a million to break through and here he was. 

_You need to be you._

Alright. __

As Quentin set his watch to wake Peter in forty-five minuets, he pondered on how such an outrageous idea had managed to become his future, and accepted the fact that it would be a long time before he had a satisfying answer.

________________

Peter had gone silent on him.

Not for a terribly long time - as of this moment, just shy of two days of complete radio silence. But with this kid, who Quentin had witnessed literally bounce off of his safe house walls after sinking the operation of a fledgling drug cartel, any amount of quiet was noticeable and worth paying attention to.

He made a concentrated effort to not pay attention to it. For the day, he buried himself in work. Finalized a set of blueprints for a batch of micro-projectors, made three phone calls to coordinate with clients outside of the city, and got into a spat with his landlord from which he emerged victorious. And through it all there was no word from Peter. Not that the matter took precedence in Quentin’s mind. Of course not. Even when he wasn’t at odds with Nick Fury himself, Quentin Beck was a busy man. The fluctuating whims of a hormonal teenager was not something he could let occupy his time. Peter would be in contact when he would.

He locked his phone in his secure cabinet to stop himself from checking it every half hour.

He got in another fifty-eight minuets of actual, productive work before he cracked.

Quentin unlocked the cabinet and checked his phone. As every news outlet in the business was so helpfully reminding him, today was the anniversary of the Battle of Earth and the anniversary of… _ugh_ Iron Man’s death. Different articles varied on which event took precedencebut one inevitably led to the other. Iron Man was the most popular face to throw up on the city’s murals and it was as nauseating as it was irritating. That had been one of the foreseen benefits of Mysterio going global. A new image to fill people’s heads and a catalyst to laying Stark’s to rest. Shame it had never come to pass.

Of all the people the world needed to shower in undeserved adulation it had to be Stark? At most, today inspired Quentin to take a stroll down to the liquor store and grab a bottle of high quality champagne. He paused, frowning. But the unfortunate date did explain the silence on Peter’s end.

Even as he clutched his phone, Quentin hesitated to ask after him. If the kid was feeling down about Stark, Quentin wouldn’t have any idea what to say or how to help. He’d probably make things worse.

 _How pathetic._ The voice in his head spoke bitterly. _You’re smooth enough to fool the head of S.H.I.E.L.D but you can’t have a conversation with a teenager without disaster? You know what he needs to hear if he’s going to get better, you’re just scared he’ll turn on you for saying it. Buck up already. You’ve known since you met that he’s not like Stark, and he never will be. And if you don’t check on him this instant you know you’ll regret it!_

Well. Let it never be said that Quentin Beck didn’t listen to reason. As he considered what the least ham fisted way of sending such a text would be, a cluster of pigeons cooing on his windowsill caught his attention and gave him an idea.

He sidled up to the window and snapped a photo, making sure to catch the gleam of their feathers. 

**Sent to:** Peter

_I think you misplaced some of your ‘Squad’._

_Mind letting them know where you’ve gone off to?_

Forty-five minuets went by and Quentin received no response which only made his uneasiness spike. Peter never failed to answer him in at least ten minuets before.

He was considering pressing on when his phone suddenly dinged and Quentin opened it to see a photo of a quiet street taken from a rooftop view. One of the kid’s legs clipped into the frame, he was wearing jeans. So not playing the hero right now. Across the way, Quentin could see the grocery store he’d become a regular at since moving to the safe house. A place within walking distance. 

Something was obviously up. Quentin maneuvered to the fridge and grabbed two drinks.

A beer and a lemonade. 

________________

The kid had been kind enough to pick an abandoned building to mope on. Across the street from the grocery store, Quentin scaled the dilapidated stairs, relieved to find that no one monitoring the building cared enough to keep locks on the doors. The door to the roof squealed as he shouldered it open.

A small, blue silhouette of a single teenager sat at the opposite end of the roof. He didn’t react to the sound of the door. 

“Evening, stranger.” Quentin said to Peter’s back as he approached. He paused to take in the sights. The sky this evening was truly impressive. A watercolour canvas of orange, pinks and yellows. As the sun set, the skyscrapers threw long blue shadows over the streets and Quentin paused to marvel at the contrast of colours.

Peter half-turned, his face owlish, “Mister Beck? What are you doing up here?” He sounded surprised, like he never expected Quentin to come looking for him. So that was how it was.

“The house was too quiet and I wanted to stretch my legs.” Quentin spoke flippantly, he didn’t need Peter to know it was partially the truth. “How ‘bout you?” 

“Oh I was just…” Peter looked out over the city, it was bathed in golden light, “Just thinking about Mister Stark, and I know he’s not your favourite person so I didn’t want to bother you with-” He gestured vaguely, “-With all _that_.”

That understatement, and it _was_ an understatement, brought a wry grin to Quentin’s lips. “That’s kind of you, Peter.” He took a seat on the ledge, letting his legs dangle. This was a familiar scene wasn’t it? “But I’m made of tougher stuff than you think. I’m sure I can handle the shock of hearing his name spoken out loud.” He held out the bottle of lemonade, “Thirsty?”

“You sure?” Peter’s eyes were wide and the light of the sun glinted off unshed tears. Oh god, he wasn’t going to cry was he? There was no plan that accounted for crying. Not that there was much in the way of a plan to begin with, but that was besides the point. Quentin did his best to steel himself, kept the drinks in a steady hand.

“Like I haven’t been hearing people talk about him every other day of the year. One more isn’t gonna change anything.” He tried to smile, tried to hide the bitterness perpetually simmering within him. When Peter smiled back, only slightly watery now, Quentin felt assured of his success. He waved the lemonade bottle when it seemed to have slipped from the kid’s focus. Peter looked at the bottle and looked back up at Quentin who looked down at the bottle. A timid hand reached for the beverage, fingers traveling over the plastic before slowly accepting the gift. 

“For real though, what are you really doing here, Mister Beck?” Peter toyed with the bottle as he stared at Quentin.

“Being ‘better’. You wanted that from me, didn’t you?” Quentin considered shrugging, but thought twice about being glib. “I thought you deserved some payoff for everything you’ve done.” _For me,_ he finished in his head. Because Peter had done all this for him, because he saw someone worth helping. It made Quentin feel special, in a way completely disparate from Mysterio. It also made him want to…’give back’ seemed the right way to put it, to help the kid like he said he would. This seemed to be a good place to start. 

“I’m-I’m so confused, Mister Beck. I think I still miss him and it still hurts. But my head keeps telling me it shouldn’t hurt at all because of what we talked about- how I… _ghhaa_ …” The kid’s voice wavered, and now closer, Quentin could see red in his eyes. 

“Hey, no one said mourning was easy. You’re allowed to be confused Peter.” Quentin swallowed, “And when you are, you can talk to me. Obviously I’m not quite the expert on ‘super-hero stuff’ but- well you know.”

The kid nodded, his face still pinched, he turned back to the evening sky.

 _You know what he needs,_ Quentin’s head nudged him. 

“You’re better off without him, Peter.” Quentin’s voice was gentle but firm. There was no need for embellishment when all he spoke was the truth.

“Trust me on that. We all are.”

Peter kicked his feet against the building, saying nothing. Quentin got the sense he was less than comforted.

It was too quiet. Quentin knew he should have heard the cars zooming by below, the flutter of the pigeon flocks as they moved from roof to roof, hell even the wind should be louder than this. Peter was more rigid than stone and just as talkative.

Quentin hated the sight of it. 

More than he hated Stark.

“Hey.” Quentin said. 

Peter glanced at him, despondent and lost. Quentin could see the weight of the world pressing down on him, compressing him into something flatter and more hollow than a shadow. It was unacceptable. He laid his hand on Peter’s shoulder. The skin felt cold through the hoodie. 

“It’ll be alright. You’re alright. Okay?”

“…thanks.” Quentin pretended he didn’t hear Peter’s voice breaking.

“Don’t mention it. To anyone. Now, drink up.”

Peter uncapped the bottle and raised it to his lips. Halfway through the motion, he paused, glancing between Quentin and the lemonade. He held his drink out, sheepishly asking for a toast. Quentin met him halfway and the necks of their drinks bonking against each other.

Peter took a sip.

Quentin did the same.

A pleasant breeze swept between the skyscrapers. It ruffled Peter’s hair. Quentin lifted his hand from Peter’s shoulder and joined the wind in mussing the kid’s hair. 

Peter apparently saw an opportunity there as he darted in under Quentin’s raised arm and latched onto his side, cuddling close.

“Thank you…” Peter’s words were muffled into the side of Quentin’s chest. Two small wet spots seeped through Quentin’s shirt. Setting his beer aside, Quentin brought his arms up and rubbed small circles on the kid’s back. He considered the _something_ between them again, Quentin could feel it rearing its gloriously enigmatic head. It felt…not _good_ under these circumstances but better than he’d ever felt before Mysterio. Good enough that he didn’t want it to end. Bittersweet enough that he could believe it was real and it could last.

“Anytime.” Quentin said.

He rested his chin on Peter’s head and didn’t think of anything beyond that.

________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that, my dears, is what we call coming around full-circle. 
> 
> p.s - stay tuned for the epilogue!!! 
> 
> p.s.s - the mourning process, like the path of redemption, is long and perplexing and not something solved by a five minute pep talk *ahem* m a r v e l


	6. Epilogue - To Call Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> our last points:  
> i - thank you again to everyone who’s read, commented, left kudos etc. I’m honestly amazed I managed to finish such a long piece and it’s your support that got us here :)  
> ii - going forward I do intend to write more, so im going to make SCH part one of a series. hopefully the next part will be out before school starts - let’s do this!!

“Alright, this one. Name and period?”

“Oh! That one’s easy. That is ‘The Swing’ by Fragonard from the…Rococo period.”

Quentin nodded, “Spot on,” He said, “Can you tell me anymore about it?”

Peter eyed the projected image - projected in such a way that it seemed the timeless art hung suspended in mid-air in front of them, framed in heavy gold swirls - and took a moment to think. “It’s a scandalous piece right? Like it was controversial?”

“They’re all scandalous, kid. Be more specific.”

“Ooh oh okay…It’s implying an affair, right? Like the lady on the swing is in love with the guy sitting in the bushes but she’s supposed to be in a relationship with the guy behind her who’s pushing the swing.”

Quentin checked the kid’s textbook. Though overloaded with flowery jargon, the information matched up with what Peter had said, “Good job.” He nodded and reached for the clicker and flipped to the next painting. “Last one.”

A new painting appeared before them, this one smaller and much less opulent.

Peter didn't hesitate, “‘Cure of Folly’.” He said, “It’s a satirical painting by Bosch and that man in the chair is trying to cure his brain sickness by having the doctor…let air into his head and cooling it down. It’s ironic because the doctor’s a fraud, which you can tell by the cone-thing on his head.”

“I can think of a few people who could use a cure like that.” Quentin said mildly, “You know the year and period?”

The kid nodded, “It’s from 1490 and part of the Northern Renaissance movement.”

“Correct. Alright, that looks like the last of it.” The heavy textbook was flipped closed and handed back to its owner. 

“Oh man, I can’t wait to be done with this class.” Peter sagged against the arm of the couch, “This art stuff is insane…” 

“It might get easier if you’d stop skipping class.” Quentin dimmed the lights, unsympathetic. He knelt before his projector, flicked it off and dug a small disk from his pocket. “Stop skipping class, by the way.” Obviously, he got that high school was a three year long drudge-fest and that being Spider-Man may certainly take precedence but encouraging a brilliant mind to turn his nose up at education of any sort was far beneath Quentin.

“It’s not because I’m skipping classes! We need to earn back the hours we lost on the Europe trip- thanks for that by the way -everyone who went has to do this. It’s just…the school schedule didn’t really make room for it so we have to rush this last part. ”

“Remind me again why you didn’t do this last year? You know, the year you actually took that trip?” Quentin fiddled with the a port in the projector and out slid a small rectangular image card. He swapped it with the one in his hand and it slid in like a DVD.

When this new life allowed Quentin a moment of reflection - and when he felt he could stomach one without a blowup - the banality of what he’d become made this head spin more than anything else. Was this him? Helping a kid - one who had spent the better part of the year worming his way into a permanent spot in Quentin’s heart - study for his last exams before summer?

He found his answer when he seamlessly incorporated their tutoring sessions into his schedule and, for reasons beyond testing his newly built tech, realized he looked forward to them.

“Man I don’t know. The teachers plan weirdly.” Peter groaned into the couch before twisting around to stare at Quentin, “What are you doing?” He asked.

“Hang on.” 

He restarted the projector.

“Here.”

The image formed in waves, white pixels folding over and becoming blue pixels then folding over again and becoming dark blue and black pixels. It arced around both Quentin and Peter, engulfing the small space of Quentin’s living room under an artificial image. The night sky, or a highly romanticized recreation of it, replaced the bare white ceiling. A sheet of nebulous blues and blacks superimposed by a sheet of stars. The edges of the image curled, giving the impression of a horizon at the edges of a wide open sky, one littered with every constellation that could be seen from New York sans the pollution. It wasn’t a perfect map, Quentin had whipped this up in short order and he was admittedly not an astronomer, but it was serviceable and certainly more thorough than any textbook Peter had ever read.

Peter seemed to agree as he gaped up at the hologram, speechless. His eyes were round like dinner plates and Quentin noticed they were dark enough to reflect the stars. 

“You like it?”

“This is awesome…” The kid sounded a little breathless, he sat up straighter, neck craning back as he tried to see everything. Quentin watched him take it all in. “It’s pretty, it’s really pretty and uh…yeah wow.” He said, downright starstruck. “The last time I saw this many stars I think I was literally in space.”

It was flattering, such unpolished _natural_ praise.

Quentin had garnered plenty compliments among his superior and peers over the years as he developed his tech. Most of them overly clinical and frankly meaningless, more a professional obligation than anything else. Things may have been different if Stark had let the public see his work but that would never happen now and before Peter, Quentin had never seen such open-faced awe in the face of his creations.

_Maybe this is you making up for lost time…_

And this wasn’t even him at a hundred percent.

Though it felt pretty damn close.

“Thanks,” Quentin said as he re-settled himself on the sofa, “It’s for you.” He admitted, even as it it felt awkward to say it out loud. “To help you relax. I figured you could use something.”

“This is for me?” Bewildered, Peter tore his eyes from the ceiling. Disbelief made his voice go higher. He was always so surprised when his kindness came back to him. 

Quentin nodded. “Yeah.” He said.

Through the dim light, he could see Peter’s ears darken as the statement sunk in. Quietly amused, he opted not to comment on it.

The kid’s head came to rest atop the back of the couch as he looked back up at the stars, “Oh man…thank you. Your stuff is so cool when you’re not trying to hurt people with it.”

Quentin made a face, annoyed because he had no counter to that. “Thanks, kid.” 

“Oh wait, this reminds me,” Peter perked up, pointing a non-accusatory finger at Quentin, who raised an eyebrow. “How’s your uh…how’s work going?”

How _was_ work going?

The jobs he found these days was less grandiose than what he’d been used to but they were keeping him warm and fed and he’d been lucky enough to find something that clicked with him just enough he could say it was enjoyable. As chaotic as his past was, Quentin had always kept a solid grip on what his purpose was at any given time. With every role he’d taken on over the years he’d taken it upon himself to mentally compile a list of his duties and their expectations. It kept him moving forward. Gave him an edge and kept him focused in a world that seemed to be hellbent on knocking him off course. It was a habit Quentin doubted he would shake any time soon. These days, his core responsibilities boiled down to finding clients to sell to, working out deals with them, then fulfilling his half and getting paid. And helping Peter - whatever that happened to mean at the time. That one was, admittedly, majorly self-imposed. Completely separate from work, but no less prevalent in his mind.

He had always known nothing could hope to stand his way if he wanted something. Only problem was, what he wanted had been a…fluctuating concept ever since Mysterio’s defeat nearly one year ago. After the experience of Operation Mysterio, being his own boss and working by his own rules, Quentin knew that no shitty desk job would ever compare. Fortunately, more people than the ones running the big corporations were realizing the world was changing, which left the market for freelance, off-the-books technology wide open. He just had to watch who he sold it to, make sure they had agendas that were relatively bloodless.

“Work’s good.” He said, eyeing the blackish, bluish canvas that was the empty virtual space behind the virtual stars. “I’m supposed to ship out another order this Tuesday. It’ll probably keep me steady for the next few months.” 

The star map simulated a shooting star, it flew from one corner of the ceiling to the other, glowing hot white and gold.

When was the last time he turned on his tech just to appreciate it’s existence?

“That’s great.” Peter looked convincingly happy for him but a shadow of doubt lingered on his face, so faint he probably didn’t realize it was there.

“You think so?”

“Yeah of course!”

“Yeah?”

“…Yesss?”

Quentin knew the kid didn’t entirely approve. Unsurprising, given his history with people who sold strange technology to buyers that ranged from questionable and corrupt to potentially violent threats. But Peter was too polite to make the comparison out loud and he didn’t want to risk knocking Quentin loose from his foothold of stability, so he hadn’t protested. Still, his discomfort was transparent. Peter had been skirting around the topic ever since Quentin told him about his new career path and it became clear the world hadn’t seen the last of his work. It was a familiar silence, Quentin noted, the willing silence of someone who was afraid of finding the answer they expected.

Quentin understood himself well enough to know that, in the right conditions, he could live with a clear conscious even if the whole world feared or hated him. Everyone minus Peter Parker. Damn kid. Truly the living embodiment of the exception to every rule.

“Ask me what you want to, kid.” He wanted as few secrets between them as possible. A bittersweet irony, considering everything about him. It seemed the deeper he sunk into this new life, the less of his so-called ‘old self’ had room to breathe.

A brief silence passed as Peter undoubtedly debated whether he should actually speak his mind.

“Should I…” Peter’s eyes squinted up at the star map as he thought, “Should I be on the lookout for evil holograms when I’m out?”

That was fair, Quentin _had_ told him many of his clients had black marks on their records. Though, the way Quentin saw it, none of them had done any worse than the average billionaire playboy or oil baron. The biggest distinction being that few of Quentin’s clients had the wealth that could buy a wiped criminal record. It was all a matter of social status and money. God, all of their problems seemed to come back around to both of those. He made a mental note to have that conversation with the kid at some point in the future.

“Hardly evil…” He said, rubbing his chin. “And the people I work with have better things to do than screw with everyday people.”

When the kid didn’t look convinced, Quentin tried again.

“I’m not gonna hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it, Peter.” He said firmly, “I’m selling products to people who asked me for them. That’s it.” And he’d certainly stuck his neck out for Peter’s sake by strictly limiting himself to non-offensive tech. It called to mind the boundaries Stark had imposed on his people after his jaunt in Afghanistan, only Quentin was doing it to himself now. That sacrifice had cost him a lot of cash and he’d told the kid as much. Of course, he’d also told Peter that the reason he stayed away from weapons was his fear of S.H.I.E.L.D intervention. Fury was a good scapegoat when it came to the shadowy and underhanded. Blaming him seemed a fair trade-off for not getting to kill the man. It probably wasn’t the most honest way to talk about his changing heart but Quentin was what he was.

And maybe, just maybe, he was also a work in progress.

This almost-year had taught him they were not always mutually exclusive.

One step at a time. 

“Oh, by the way,” Quentin said, wanting to change the subject. “I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier. Happy birthday.”

Peter blinked and looked at him like he was crazy, “Um, my birthday’s not for a couple months, dude.” 

“Pardon me?”

“It’s not ‘till August.”

Quentin made his eyes bulge. He dropped his gaze to the floor, slapping a hand over his mouth as if mortified. He went rigid, brow furrowing into an expression of a man thoroughly strained by his own confusion. As if he hadn’t known since Peter mentioned his birthday during a conversation about the Blip months ago. Like he didn’t have a schedule tacked up in his tiny workspace with the days he could afford to set aside to work on the kid’s present circled three times over in bright red marker. He opted not to mention said gift, that sat three-quarters completed in his his workshop. Nothing too fancy, Quentin didn’t throw around world-changing tech around like a certain billionaire asshole he chose not to mention, but after taking what Peter told him about his daily escapades into account Quentin had managed to work out a little device that might make things easier.

But first, pretending he’s just forgotten the kid’s birthday by two months and a week. He refocused on the sound of Peter’s poorly-stifled giggles. 

“Oh.” He ground out, pinching the bridge of his nose to further drive home the disgruntled, embarrassed image. “Oh.”

Peter scrambled to soothe Quentin’s injured pride. “I mean- thank you, Mister Beck! Thank you, but uh yeah, it’s not until August tenth.” 

“Remember when we met?” Quentin asked, ignoring Peter’s confused frown at the non-sequitur, “And I said you could call me Quentin?”

“Yeah?”

“You should know that still stands. I think formality is the least of both our worries at this point.”

“Hmm.” Peter’s face scrunched, “Do you mind if I wait on that one? For a bit? I dunno why but I’d feel a bit weird with the first name thing.”

“‘Cause I’m old?”

“Okay those are _your_ words!”

“So they’re right.”

As an answer, Peter reached out, his hand flopping half-lifelessly towards Quentin’s face. His palm gently slapped against Quentin’s cheeks, the hand patting his beard down flat as he stretched towards Quentin’s mouth. Pale fingers butted against his lips, “Shuusshh…” Peter mumbled between giggles as Quentin faked trying to shake his face free, “Shussshh…”

His expression perfectly deadpan, Quentin pantomimed taking a bite out of Peter’s hand.

The kid laughed as he pulled away and called him weird.

The sat quietly for a few long moments, Quentin tried to pick out Venus among the millions of dots of light. He doubted he succeeded. Suddenly, the kid piped up.

“Hey, you know what else you said when we met?” That lilt to his voice was back, as was the glint in his eyes that promised only a very irked Quentin Beck. He arched a brow.

“That the multiverse was real and you watched a planet die.” Peter squinted, remembering something particularly distasteful, “And that you were married!”

“And you know who fell for it?” Quentin leaned in, flicking Peter’s nose in retaliation. “You did.”

“And the director of S.H.I.E.L.D!” Peter squawked, gesturing wildly as he soared the heights of indignation.

“And if it weren’t for you, it would have stayed that way.” 

They lapsed into quiet again, staring at each other. The silence lasted all of ten seconds before Peter broke and his face crumpled in on itself as he doubled over laughing. Quentin watched him with a small smile of his own. Hm. He could definitely keep being a work in progress for this. The kid’s good mood was infectious. Though admittedly, he was better at turning his pain into humour than Quentin. A year ago, Quentin would have told him to put the energy to better use, but he was a stranger in Peter’s world, less certain of what was best and still finding his footing.

They returned to pretending to study the virtual night sky. Quentin watched the kid from the corner of his eye. 

“I can’t believe it’s almost been a year. Since you moved in I mean.”

“It’s pretty crazy, huh? You’ve made it bearable, Peter.” Quentin frowned to himself. Surely he could think of a better word than _that_. “I mean, hell, you’ve made it more than bearable. Personally, I’m amazed we made a year too, and…we made it because of you.” Lord knew Quentin wouldn’t have given anyone else the time of day if they pounded on his door and proclaimed him capable of bettering himself. “You should be proud of yourself.”

“Then you should be proud of yourself too. You’re doing so well, Mister Beck. Really.” 

Heat flooded Quentin’s face. Grateful for the low light, he shook his head to clear it.

“Yeah well, you’ve kept it interesting enough. Better than prison would be for sure.” 

Underneath the canvas of a fake galaxy, Quentin Beck felt the realness of the situation- _of everything they’d built and how much it mattered-_ wash over him. It was a heady feeling.

“Listen, if anyone had to do… _this_ to me. Bring me along on this god damn journey to- what are we calling it again- ‘being me just better’. I’m glad it’s you.” Quentin turned his head, only to find that Peter was already staring at him. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

He’d never said that to Peter and not meant it.

Peter scooted closer, he seemed happy.

The apartment felt cozy.

Above them, a blanket of virtual stars sparkled and shone.

“Me too.” Peter said, and smiled.

________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading :)
> 
> p.s - we are not done with these gentlemen! as I was writing SCH I fell more and more in love with the AU and came up with a few more ideas ;) stay tuned!!
> 
> p.s.s - when I write ‘Quentin made his eyes bulge’ I pray that only thing you imagine is Jake Gyllenhaal making *That* face

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :) please let me know what you think!
> 
> p.s. - the title is inspired by the song 'short change hero' by the heavy, and all chapter titles are lyrics from that song


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